


Blood|Lines

by Whatwefightfor



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: And some that is Resolved, Angst, Dark Fantasy, Drow Culture, Half-Vampires, Homebrew Content, Multi, NPC lore dump, Partial documentation of an NPC's long adventuring career, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2020-09-26 06:41:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 54,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20385319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatwefightfor/pseuds/Whatwefightfor
Summary: Born to a human consort, Dane von Zarovich lacks the strength to challenge his father. So when the old man's paranoia gets out of hand, he has no choice but to flee, shaking off spies and killing assassins in a bloody path to self-imposed exile.





	1. The Fool (Upright)

On the furthest edge of the dread realm Hazlan lay the hamlet of Forfarmax, just to the side of Forlorn and right in the middle of no-one-cares. That was what had attracted Jander to the place. Sure, he’d retired, but his enemies might not agree. He’d long ago learned the benefits of obscurity’s smokescreen.

So when the golden-haired boy with his kind’s red eyes - eyes Jander still saw in his nightmares - came limping through his door, looking like the hunter and the hunted all at once, he couldn’t help but wonder if his profile had been kept low enough.

As a former vampire hunter, he knew when a dhampir was on his streets. He just hadn’t expected, well... _ this.  _ Standing before him, a drowned-rat teenager smothered in bandages under his tattered black coat, eyes burning like hot coals as they stared into his.

“My name is Dane von Zarovich,” he said, his voice wobbly, but with the conscious charisma of determination. “I need to learn to kill vampires.”

Jander, seated behind a dark, polished wood desk, grunted. “Bullshit.” Brushing aside the clutter of paper, curios, and disassembled weapons, he poured himself a tumbler of scotch and gingerly held it in his withered left hand.

Dane’s face twitched, failed to suppress a wrinkling of his nose. “Excuse me?”

“Zarovich bloodline carries black hair,” Jander said. “Blondie like you? Half-vampire? I don’t see the resemblance.” 

“My mother…” said Dane. “She was human.”

Janger sipped his scotch. “Strahd doesn’t take human wives. He drives ‘em mad till they break and then he finds another. He’d turn ‘em if he could.”

“She wasn’t his wife, she was a concubine. I was an accident. Listen,” Dane said quickly. "Mr. Sunstar-”

“Oh,  _ please _ ,” Jander groaned.

“You are my father’s oldest enemy. For thirty years you studied his contingencies and weaknesses. You-”

“ _ Failed, _ ” Jander interrupted a second time. “I failed, boy.”

Dane frowned. Those heavy brows - there  _ was  _ some of Strahd in him, after all. “I am no boy.”

Jander lurched forward in his seat. “To a vampire - like Strahd, like me, like  _ yourself, boy _ \- you’re a babe in swaddling clothes. Don’t forget that.”

Now Dane looked surprised. “I didn’t know you were…”

“Never talks about me, does he? Typical.” With a harsh laugh, the older vampire pointed to a nearby chair. “Sit.”

The chair was drowning in the same variety of clutter as his desk. Dane spent a few uncomfortable seconds clearing it and pulling it closer.

“Now,” Jander said, setting down the scotch and steepling his fingers. “Let’s hear your whole story. From the beginning.”

As Dane talked, Jander watched closely for any signs of magical influence, illness, or just plain dishonesty. He wasn’t sure what to make of this wounded kid. Was it some ploy? Strahd hadn’t come knocking in years. He’d thought Jander dead, that was certain. Had a job blown his cover? Or was this not Strahd’s game at all? Any of the Darklords could be up to it. Hells, maybe the other Zarovich stripling - Lyssa, or what’s-her-name, was making a move and wanted to con an old hunter into it.

But the further Dane got, the more Jander was forced to concede he found no lie. What he did find was that same wounded kid.

He’d never liked kids. Especially ones with fangs.

“He’s got plans; I’ve seen them,” Dane was saying. “Spells that protect him from his curse. Great flying machines that could produce an artificial night on the Prime Material. He wants to leave Ravenloft. He-”

“Slow down,” Jander said. “If that’s his intention, it won’t happen, not for many years. The Dark Powers aren’t that easily cheated. But the old man’s not why you’re here, is he?”

Dane fidgeted. “Well, yes, but I am not strong enough to challenge him.”

Jander grunted again, eyeing his bandaged wounds. “Clearly.”

“These aren’t from - there was - Look,” Dane said. “I need to learn to kill vampires. I need to get stronger. And our...our people…” He looked aside. “Must face justice for their crimes against the living." 

There it was. Jander could do something with that. 

“If you want this old man to teach you,” Jander said. “You’re out of luck. You need a hunter’s education: alchemy, poison craft, stealth, and misdirection, to get started, and I”ve neither the time nor the inclination to get you caught up.”

Dane didn’t protest, or leave in disgust and defeat. He simply waited. Patient and sharp. Good.

“In the city of Dikhanye,” Jander began. “Some... _ associates _ of mine make their home. The Barbaroi.”

“The Silent Sisters?” Dane’s breath hitched audibly.

“Their reputation proceeds them, I see.” Jander poured himself more scotch and retrieved a fine gnomish cigar from the case in his desk drawer. “Go. Survive their training and pass their tests. Prove you’ve learned the assassin arts. Then, you can return here, eh? For your first lesson.”

Dane started to stand, but paused. “How will I find them?”

Jander smiled. “You won’t have to. The Drow House of Naurkuroi may rule the city, even assumed that name to rub salt in the wound. But the Barbaroi own the mob, and the market. They’ll find you.” He lit his cigar, then slid a ring from his withered hand. “Take this. Tell them I sent you, and they won’t kill you.” As Dane reached out to take it, he snatched it back. “Lose it, and I’ll stake you myself. Ir was given to me by their Mentor. I’ll want it back.”

“You’ll have it back,” Dane said. “How long will this take?”

“Oh-ho, in a hurry, are we?” Jander took a puff of his cigar. “That depends on you, doesn’t it?” He handed over the ring. 

Pocketing it, Dane looked unsatisfied, but he stood up, that earlier determination given coherent form. “Very well.”

Jander extended his good hand. “Do we have a deal, young Zarovich?”

Dane squared his shoulders, looked Jander in the eye, and shook his hand.

“Deal.”


	2. The Hanged Man (Upright)

Dikhanye was not precisely what Dane had expected. 

He’d been told that it was half-in, half-out of the Shadowfell, merging with the Underdark on the Prime Material. He’d expected - what? Portals, maybe? A great, big portal? Instead, he went miles and miles under the Blasted Plains to find a giant cavern, full of floating boulders and oversized stalagmites that buzzed with light and movement like angry beehives. Not that he’d ever seen a beehive, but one reads about these things.

Dane began to notice bioluminesence in the mushrooms dotting the cavern walls, a color spectrum alien to his Ravenloft-native eyes. He would have stopped to marvel at them, but his wounds ached and he wanted sorely to bathe.

There were five main stalagmites in all, connected several levels up by a network of bridges, ringed in walkways and honeycombed with rooms and tunnels. The central formation, and the largest, had many protruding buttresses, as well as a large, hollowed section in the middle forming the contoured visage of the goddess Lolth. That would be the main temple and ruling palace of the Naurkuroi, the Drow royal house that occupied the city. Jander had made special mention of their name spiting the Barbaroi as its former rulers, and it was not beyond Dane’s elvish to see why. The Silent Sisters - their namesake an abstraction - deposed by the Sisterhood of the Corporeal.

He met two guards at the ground-level gate. There was a standard on display, bone-white and amethyst, with what seemed to be a wolf’s skull as seen from directly above. The guards were tall, muscular, and excessively hairy beneath their armor. Dane thought he saw a slit pupil in one’s eye as it caught the light. A loud sniff came from the impassive helmet.

Dane pulled his collar up to his neck and walked faster.

It appeared that poverty remained on the cavern floor in this city, or else was swept into tunnels and corners where it couldn’t be seen. Dane has some of his father’s coin left, and he resolved to get up a few levels before finding a place to stay. He would not go to the central spire. Too close to the seat of power. He chose the nearest one, to his left.

A carpet of merchants slogging through bureaucracy for admittance, beggar’s tents, chain gangs, and patrolling guards made his trip slow. More than once he felt himself being singled out for his red eyes, but he passed through the crowd and no one stopped or approached him. Turning a blind eye to the suffering around him didn’t feel good, but Dane clenched his jaw and reminded himself how badly he needed the few crowns he had left, cut off from his “inheritance”, wounded, and with no real plan.

He shut his ears to the ceaseless cries for alms and kept moving.

Climbing ten or so levels until his thighs began to protest, he followed a well-lit promenade past some shops and watering holes to an inn called The Red Duchess. Its elegant name and the subtlety of its signage, with no bawdy art, appealed to him. He entered to the clinking of cups, a woman softly singing along to a harpsichord, and the crackle of a fire. A magical one, no doubt. Wood was expensive down here, though not so much, perhaps, in Dikhanye, where the dry, petrified wood of the Shadowfell was available.

“Evening,” said a drow from behind the desk. Her hair was pulled back tight, and a pair of spectacles sat on her nose. She would have looked almost matronly were she not as ageless as all elvenkind. “Something I can do for you?”

Dane approached her with a tired, obliging smile. “Yes. I’d like a room. Someplace private, but not too costly.”

The drow pursed her lips, checked her paperwork. “I can give you a view of the street for six and a half silvers. The window’s wide if you need a..._ discreet _ exit.”

Not what he wanted, but he could make it work, and she’d saved him the trouble of haggling down. Eight silvers was usually the going rate for a place like this. “I’ll take it.” He handed over the silver.

“Thank you. Here is your key, and meals are served at-” as her hand brushed his, her eyes fluttered and she breathed deeply through her nose. “...I’m sorry, what was I saying?”

Damnation. He couldn’t control his pheromones! It had definitely been too long since he’d fed, especially after that botched regeneration. He should have known when his legs hurt from a simple climb like some _ human _.

Dane withdrew his hand, doing his best to act natural and not raise suspicion by apologizing. “Meals.”

“Ah, yes.” With a hint of color in her cheeks, she adjusted her glasses. “They’re served from the eighth strike of the clock tower until we close the ovens at glowdusk. Any later, room service is extra.” She gestured to the dining room floor. “Our barmaid’s about, that’s Fifer tonight, and I’m Yvienne. Let me know if you need anything.” She smiled rather shyly as he took the key.

Dane was careful not to brush her hand again without being obvious. “Of course.” It was a shame; she was rather pretty, but any future interactions would only be taking advantage of her now that his pheromones were involved.

He turned and flagged down the barmaid as he walked between tables. She was another drow, although the Duchess’s clientele were notably more diverse. Dane counted duergar, tieflings, svirfneblin, even some surface dwellers. He realized, with the human tint to his pale complexion, he must stand out as much as the latter.

‘Fifer’ made her way to him, cleaning a tankard with a rag. She looked oddly bored, with dark makeup on her eyes and lips, and her black hair was in tight cornrows. Perhaps she was younger than Yvienne by some margin, but it was only distinguishable in how she carried herself. “Yes?”

Dane dropped his voice. “I’m headed to my room. Could I have a basin of hot water, some linen, and a binding cloth delivered, please?”

She nodded. “Will you be wanting anything for the pain?”

“What-” Dane blinked. “What did I say about-” he sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. She must have known he intended to clean an injury of some kind. “It doesn’t matter. Any suggestions?”

“Brandy, then.” Fifer set down the clean tankard. “I’ll have it ready for you. Three silvers.”

Ah. Now realizing this qualified as room service, Dane gave her the money, dropping it into her palm and pulling back his hand like he’d been scalded to avoid touching her. She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Thank you,” he said, and headed upstairs, away from the music.

His room did indeed have a single, large window, which thankfully had curtains. Elsewise there was a bed, a small nightstand, and a chair made of the myconid synthetic wood common in the Underdark. A tapestry, threadbare, with some abstract art depicting a ritual of some kind, decorated the wall.

Dane slowly unbelted his heirloom sword, setting it and his coat on the chair, and sat down heavily on the bedside. He began to gingerly pull off his silk shirt, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles and the bruises he still bore. The movement pulled at the cut on his side the most, but his other scrapes and lacerations protested as well. Naked from the waist up, he unwrapped the bandages around his ribs and shoulder, considering the tears and stains on his discarded shirt. He most definitely needed new clothes, but he could not afford to be vain with what little money he had left. Not until he found a reliable source of income.

There was a rap at the door, and then it swung open. He’d left it unlocked. Sloppy. But it was only the barmaid, Fifer, carrying the basin and linens he’s asked for.

“Here you are,” she said, setting them on the table, then offering him a dented tin cup. “Will you be wanting anything else?”

Dane took the cup. “No, thank you.” He shook his hair behind his shoulders and dabbed the linen in the hot water, holding it to his slowly clotting side and wincing. He felt Fifer lingering in the doorway and turned to see her eyes traveling up his torso with an appraising look.

“...Yes?” he asked, frustration rising in his belly.

She smirked, more mockery than flirtation in her lips, and wordlessly closed the door. Apparently, her curiosity had been satisfied. Dane wondered if she knew something he didn’t. Perhaps she’d glimpsed his fangs as they spoke. If he was having trouble with his pheromones, anything was possible.

Resolving to feed before he did much else, he retrieved a cold capsule from the pocket of his coat and drank it, savoring the rich iron of the unknown blood. He had very few left, and that meant he would need to truly hunt soon - something he tried not to think about.

Cleaning and re-bandaging his wounds was a process both slow and painful. Dane kept his mind on his work and frequently sipped the brandy, but it was impossible to tend the injuries Viggo and Salara had given him without seeing them in his mind’s eye. Their faces as they realized that he meant to kill, full of shock and betrayal and painful inevitability. They’d worked together to fight him after they’d shaken off sleep; they’d had a plan. But would they have used it, if he hadn’t attacked first? Might sparing them have been a risk worth taking? Their friendship, their _ lives _for his?

If only he’d had more time.

His thoughts were interrupted, though, by a slip of paper folded into the linen. Dane’s brows creased as he opened it. In small script, it read: _ Level four. Storehouse district, northwest corner. Glowdusk. _

His frown deepened. Was this some kind of come-on? He’d been careful not to touch Fifer. Then again - there was a symbol in the bottom corner. A strange emblem he’d seen somewhere before.

Then it hit him. He was wearing Jander’s ring. He splayed his fingers, brought it to his face. The band of gold bore the same embossed symbol. This was a message from the Barbaroi.

Well, Jander had said they would find him first.

Dane finished wrapping his wounds, his mind racing. Evening changed to undernight outside his window, and the luminous fungi dimmed. There was no chance in trying to find Fifer or anyone else that could have noticed the ring now that meals were no longer being served.

But after all that, he wouldn’t be able to sleep unless he tranced.

Sighing, he crossed his legs and shut his eyes, tapping into the well of discipline that sent him into his waking dreams.

The next morning, Dane donned his coat and sword to head downstairs. He found no sign of Fifer; instead, a different barmaid was serving breakfast on the floor. Yvienne the innkeeper was behind her desk, but he thought better of asking the personal information of one of her employees. Instead, he purchased another night and left to walk the streets, intent on gathering information and staking out the meeting place he was to attend at dusk.

He checked the storehouse first. It was large and looked dark, obviously not the headquarters of the Barbaroi and rather a safe, unobtrusive meeting place. The route was narrow and convoluted, but then, in these stalagmite warrens, it was beginning to feel like everywhere off the main thoroughfares was. Despite the lack of guards, even the poor didn’t hang around this spot, so for the purposes of his summons, it was perfect.

The guards were his next question. It took only the prodding of a few shopkeeps to get the story. The ruling Naurkuroi princess kept a werewolf alpha as her consort, and his pack was given free reign as her private police force. They had been the trump card for her house’s cold war with the Barbaroi. This was not good news. Dane didn’t like the idea of being in a claustrophobic, off-the-ground city surrounded by a vampire’s natural enemies.

He briefly considered replacing his coat and shirt, but once again thought better of it. The Barbaroi should see him as he was.

After procuring food from a street vendor, he explored the levels in between the Duchess and the storehouse. The city was populated similarly to the inn. Dane noticed priestesses of Lolth several times, traveling with an entourage of acolytes, indentured servants, and supplicants. Dikhanye, it seemed, was the religious bastion for drow who had not converted to the path of other, less cruel gods. Duergar and svirfneblin had their own deities, of course, but here they were significantly less obtrusive than Lolth. In addition, the Naurkuroi coat of arms was everywhere, the political equivalent of “feathers puffed up”. 

Jander had said the princess ruled the city, but the Barbaroi owned the streets. Clearly, he had been right, if Naurkuroi felt this threatened.

Those thoughts carried him through the rest of the day. As glowdusk began to fall, he made his way to the appointed storehouse. Traffic on the streets slowed to a trickle, but did not stop, and the guards became more standoffish. He moved carefully. 

The storehouse was still mostly dark, but the large doors hung open, and a single point of light shone from inside. As he got closer, he saw that two women stood outside, clad in dark leather, with face masks covering their mouth and nose. 

One of them stepped toward him. “Show us your weapons, outsider.”

Dane drew back his coat to expose his sword. The drow paused, as if waiting for more, but when he made no move, she nodded curtly and waved him on.

The light was an illuminated circle on the floor near the center of the storehouse. Although Dane had a vampire’s night vision, he could not see the walls or rafters, so the shadows must have been magical.

“Stop,” said the drow, who must have followed him in. She moved past him, out of the circle and into the darkness.

A moment later, she returned with five others, who formed a loose semicircle facing him. One or two of them appeared to be male, but the majority were not. All were drow.

“Outsider,” the woman in the center spoke now, her voice not at all muffled by her face mask. Her hair was in a high bun with sticks or knives through it. “Why have you entered our city wearing our colors when none were bestowed upon you?”

Dane detected the formality of ritual in her diction. He thought it best to accept the call-and-response being initiated. “I wish to learn the skills of your trade. I am-”

“We know who you are, Dane von Zarovich,” she said. “Do you come with no proof of investment, or do you carry a recommendation?”

Trying to mask his surprise and unease, Dane held up the ring. “I have the recommendation of Jander Sunstar. It was he who lent me this ring.”

There was a murmur. A seventh drow emerged from the shadows, a tall woman with a headscarf or cowl and broad shoulders bearing furred pauldrons. “It is rare that one joins the Sisterhood who is not of our blood, outsider,” she said. “If what you say is true, I would see the ring I once gave Jander Sunstar, for he was a true friend of the Barbaroi.”

“Is, madam,” Dane said, hoping he was being respectful. “He yet lives.”

The woman crossed into the circle. “Interesting.”

The drow with knives in her hair hissed. “Mentor, do not approach him!”

“Hush, child.” So this was the Mentor - the most dangerous woman in the Underdark, and one of the most powerful. She lived up to her mystique in charisma, at least. Dane had to struggle to hold his ground as she strode up to him and grabbed his hand, inspecting the ring he wore. 

“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, this is that ring.” She looked Dane in the eyes and raised her voice. “As a dhampir, you have some power. Our techniques are, perhaps, not beyond you.” She turned and walked out of the circle. “Return to your room at the Duchess. You will hear of our decision within a day.” 

Dane ground his teeth. He was running out of time and money. But it would serve him to show gratitude. He inclined his head. “I thank you for your...consideration.” Obediently, he pivoted and left the storehouse.

Undernight had fallen outside. He kept to the main roads as he walked back, slipped into the inn, and collapsed onto his bed.

Hopefully he would not be kept waiting long.


	3. The Empress (Reversed)

It seemed everyone wanted a piece of Dane except the Barbaroi.

“Hey handsome,” said a demon-blood tiefling wearing a skimpy dress. “You looking for some company?”

He kept walking.

“Alms for the infirm! Alms!” A hunched figure staggered in front of him. “Spare some for a veteran, boy?”

He kept walking.

“Hey!” a guard barked at him. “Stay out of trouble, half-breed.”

He sped up.

These werewolves. Some of them could sniff him out at a glance. He needed to get off the streets, or at least find a more permanent way to keep attention off him. But it wasn’t easy with the Silent Sisters being so damn  _ silent _ .

Their Mentor had said ‘within a day’ last night. Glowdusk was falling now, and he’d heard nothing.

He had hoped to return to the Duchess to see Fifer and question her, but once again, another barmaid was working this shift. He spared no glances after that, continuing to his room and flopping onto the bed.

Maybe they didn’t want him. If he returned to Jander empty-handed, what then?He would be back to square one, with no connections, no plan, no money…

He was lost in these spiraling thoughts when something zipped through his open window and buried itself in the pillow next to his head.

Dane stared at the hole in disbelief for a second before rolling off the bed, hitting the floor next to the wall painfully. Why the hells was the window open? He hadn’t left it that way. And whoever had shot at him, the weapon had been silent. 

From a crouch, he peered over the top of the mattress. A black-garbed figure had alighted in the window, and was looking around, as if searching the room. Something glinted in their hand.

He had a few options here. He could bum-rush his attacker and risk the knife, or he could go for his sword, which was in its belt on the chair. He’d have to roll across the bed, parry with the sheath while he stalled enough to draw it, and then he’d have the reach advantage. Drive them back to the window.

Dane saw the figure’s gaze sweep over him and they straightened, stepping off the windowsill into the room and squaring their shoulders. He’d been seen.

In a blur of motion, he was over the bed, tumbling across the pillows as the figure came toward him. He snatched up one, tossed it in their face with a soft  _ thwack  _ and a small cloud of feathers. There was space to land on his feet, catlike, and yank his sword belt off the chair.

The figure batted the pillow down, and the two of them stood, the chair between them, in the light of the window. He saw the face-mask, the narrow, elfin eyes.

So they’d come for him after all. The Silent Sisters wanted him silenced.

He resolved not to make it easy for them.

As soon as he made to draw his sword, the drow moved, too fast. Dane kicked the chair at their legs, backing up, but he came in contact with the wall. 

His blade made it out halfway before the drow was on him, grabbing the pommel and shoving it back into the sheath to then strike at his throat with the knife. Dane ducked, threw his shoulders forward, and turned out, away from the wall.

There was a short struggle with the sword and knife. Dane grabbed the drow’s wrists and forced them back, but they twisted out of his grip. He was stronger, but they had the upper hand in technique. Which meant his sword had to come out. 

The drow threw the knife. Dane abandoned drawing his sword a second time to swat it away with the crossguard, held in front of his face. Then he felt an elbow in his gut as he was tackled to the ground. His enemy was trying to wrestle the sword away on him, posturing up until their knee was on his belly and pulling at his grip.

Dane bucked his hips and rolled out from under them, leaping to his feet. He skipped back towards the bedside and drew his sword.

Before it made it all the way out of the sheath, the drow kicked up from the ground at the tip, sliding it forcefully back up to the guard. The added momentum sent the pommel into Dane’s chin, knocking him back onto the bed. 

He snarled. Annoying.

As the drow stood up, drawing another knife from somewhere on their person, Dane bared his fangs and hissed, letting the magic in his blood boil over. 

Cloaked in red mist, he pushed his mass and muscles to vampire-speed, launching past the drow, running up the wall, and gripping the ceiling with his fingernails. 

He bit down on the sheath of his sword, drawing it so fast the blade sang, and diving, death condensed to a single point.

Time seemed to slow down. The drow fell back onto the floor as he descended, but couldn’t make it out of the way in time. 

Dane landed on his feet, straddling their chest, with the sword held over his head and leveled at their face. The smell of sweat and the sound of their pulse was palpable even through the face mask, which covered their slim neck. 

Dane was  _ hungry.  _ He didn’t want to strike the killing blow. He wanted to  _ bite.  _

It was in this moment of indecision that the sound of applause came from the window. Another drow was walking into the room, unarmed, casually. “That’s enough, Clare,” she said. “I think he passed.”

Confusion broke through the stupor of bloodlust. Dane regained control of himself just in time to look down and see the drow beneath him pull down the face mask he - for they did  _ seem _ to be a he - wore and laugh, revealing a pleasant, attractive face framed by long, straight hair. 

“I see why no one else volunteered,” Clare said. “I haven’t had a fight that hard in ages.”

“Seen worse,” said another voice, and Dane turned his head to see Fifer, dressed in the same black garb, come in behind the other woman through the window. “No need to flatter him.”

The one who’d taken the lead pulled down her mask too. She had a mole beneath her left eye and her lips quirked in a wry smile. “Peace, outsider,” she said, putting out an open hand to placate him. “You face no threat from us.”

Dane stood, allowing the one called Clare to get up, but didn’t sheath his sword. He’d worked so hard to get the damn thing out, after all. “Then tell me. Why did your friend attack me?”

“I don’t think he’s happy about the attention he’s getting, Trill,” said Clare, moving to her side. “Should we tell him?”

Trill rolled her eyes and cuffed him on the ear. “Clarion wasn’t trying to kill you. It’s customary for new initiates to be tested in combat. Lets us know what we’re working with.”

Dane blinked. Looked at Clarion and Fifer, then back at Trill. “And if the initiate loses?”

Trill shrugged. “They’re kidnapped and taken back to base, where they’ll be properly educated in defending themselves before we move to more complicated topics. At this stage, you’re in, regardless.” She smirked wider. “You can relax.”

Not satisfied, Dane sheathed his sword. “What if I’d killed him?”

“We knew you probably would,” Fifer said. “Hence the lack of other volunteers.”

Clarion only laughed.

Trill, still smiling, showed her teeth. “I wouldn’t have let you.”

Dane studied her. Her skin was the more typical grey, like Fifer’s, but her hair, in a high ponytail, was white, like Clarion’s, whose skin was purple. 

Trill wore more actual armor than the other two, though it still should have been easy to move in. Along with tunic, pants, greaves and pauldrons, she wore an archer’s horn vambrace on one arm, and a leather bracer on the other, which had something - a sheath for a throwing knife, maybe - built into the underside. 

She seemed to notice the intensity of his gaze and cocked her hip, raising an eyebrow. Realizing that he was ogling her much as Fifer had him two days before, Dane quickly averted his eyes and ran his hand through his hair with a sigh.

“Alright,” he said. “So, what now?”

“Now, Dane von Zarovich,” Trill said. “You’re coming with us.”

Fifer, who had moved to the chair without him noticing, picked up his coat and threw it onto his head, pulling its hem and sleeves down tight. Blinded, Dane stumbled, only for strong arms - Clarion’s or Trill’s, he wasn’t sure - to pick him up and throw him over the owner’s shoulder like a sack of flour. His sword was snatched from his hand as he thrashed about, trying to strike at his captor.

“Careful, now,” said Clarion from above his ear. “You’ll bash yourself on the window frame.” They were indeed moving up and out now. Dane felt as if he’d fall any second, and so he stopped struggling, resigned to the indignity of this childish hazing.

“You said you’d kidnap me if I  _ lost _ ,” he said indignantly.

“I made no such specifics,” Trill said from somewhere up ahead, which was on the other side of Clarion’s midriff. “Besides, it wouldn’t be any fun if you could see where we’re going.”

Fifer laughed. Her laugh was shorter, quieter, and less pleasing than Clarion’s. It sounded like she didn’t laugh often.

Dane’s face bumped into Clarion’s lower back. Must have been vaulting the window, carrying them out into the night. “I’m guessing you don’t plan to  _ tell  _ me, then?”

“No,” Trill said sounding like she was enjoying herself immensely. “You’ll come to know the route eventually, so just have patience.”

“Then  _ what _ ,” Dane said, some of his old haughtiness coming out at the indignity of the situation. “Is the  _ point  _ of all this cloak-and-dagger skulduggery?”

“Tradition,” said Trill, and then Dane’s stomach turned as if they were airborne.

“You keeping an eye out for guards, Fife?” Clarion asked, his voice slightly strained.

Fifer, who was now farther ahead than Trill, scoffed. “You worry about Dane hitting his head on a chimney, and  _ I’ll _ worry about the wolves.”

“Eyes forward, Fifer,” Trill said. “He’s right. They were out in force last night.”

Fifer was silent. It seemed Trill was exempt from her caustic wit.

“Think it’s because of our boy, here?” Clarion thumped Dane’s buttock affectionately.

Trill made a noncommittal noise in her throat. “Maybe. Not just that, though. There are too many of them on the other spires for that. It’s got to be Mentor.” She sighed. “I  _ told  _ her not to move.”

“You did,” Fifer echoed.

“She never listens.”

“It’s a common theme with leaders, I hear,” Fifer replied again, without a hint of subtlety. Never mind. Her caustic wit allowed Trill no such exemption.

“Don’t worry, Trill,” Clarion grunted. “She’s back at home now, and we cover our tracks well. We even got to Dane first, see?”

“A boon which I am continually re-evaluating,” Dane said. He was beginning to feel the effects of motion sickness. A churning in his gut and a fuzzy tightness in his head. He wished Clarion would put him down. Tradition was fucking overrated.

“Stuff it,” Fifer said. “We’re coming up on a checkpoint.”

No one spoke after that. Dane was jostled and swung about, but Clarion never let him be hurt, which he supposed he should be grateful for. Occasionally, growling and barking came from the streets below (or, he assumed they were above the street), but Trill and the others never stopped moving. 

Eventually, after Dane had been feeling particularly weightless for some time, Fifer came and removed the coat from his head.

Clarion peeked over his shoulder down at him. “How do you like the view?”

They were clinging to the outside of the stalagmite, thousands of feet above the floor of the cavern. A decrepit, long-since-retired walkway was broken off a short distance behind them, unlit and far from any activity. Trill, hanging upside-down from a ledge above them, was beckoning. 

“Had to take a detour,” she said. “Now we’re going shopping. Let him down, Clare.”

Clarion looked down nervously. “Here?”

“No, you idiot! Climb up first!”

While he did just that, Dane looked around until he saw Fifer, who still had his coat over her arm. His sword was also strapped to her waist.

She saw him looking and wrinkled her nose. “I’d be doing you a favor if I dropped this coat.”

“Please don’t,” Dane said.

“Or burned it.” As Clarion let him down to his feet, she handed it back to him. “ _ You’re  _ going to burn it, right?”

“Of course not!” Dane snapped. “I’m going to sell it.”

“As what, a dickrag? It already smells like one.”

“ _ Fifer. _ ” Trill said sharply. “Take point again, please.”

Dane stewed, holding the smelly coat and still without his sword.

Clarion threw an arm around him. “No need to worry. We’ll clothe you ourselves. You won’t be an outsider much longer.”

Raising an eyebrow, Dane turned on him. “Do you pat the arse of every outsider, then?”

Hands up in surrender, Clarion backed off laughing. “Point taken. We’re all very familiar, so sometimes it’s hard to remember everyone isn’t raised like that.”

Trill shot them a warning look as Fifer led them into the street. There were other people walking around; it seemed they’d been traveling the rooftops until morning. In fact, Dane realized, they’d moved to another spire; the central one, to be exact, because he’d seen the giant carving of Lolth from above when they were hanging off the side. 

Strangely, none of the pedestrians gave them a second glance, and there were no guards to be seen. After a few winding streets, Fifer led them into a shop that had just opened up. It was cozily lit, with shelves and shelves of books and scuffed tables drowned in parchment.

“A bookstore?” Dane said aloud, baffled.

“That baffled tone is exactly why this is our front,” said Trill. “Knowledge is a weapon; one that’s rational and has many applications. Still, many don’t think to see it that way, and many don’t think to look for us here.” 

She strode past the front desk and to a shelf near the back, where she manipulated a false book. The shelf swung out, revealing a stone wall. Trill passed her hand over the wall and murmured something. The stones rippled in response. 

“After you,” she said.


	4. The High Priestess (Upright)

Passing through a wall was an odd sensation.

Dane wasn’t sure if it was an illusion or if it had been temporarily made insubstantial, but either way, he walked _ into _ it and then _ out of _it. A staticy chill went down his spine, and then he was standing on a landing above a long stone staircase, wide enough for three people to walk side by side, and tiled in good-quality stone. It looked well kept and expensively wrought.

Three odd sucking noises announced that Trill and the others had come in behind him, and his dhampir’s ears picked up the _ click _of the bookshelf swinging shut on the other side of the presumably now-solid wall. Trill snapped her fingers and a torch on the wall suddenly lit, illuminating the darkened tunnel. Several more, placed periodically down the stairway, followed suit. Dane could see that it turned sharply to the right after descending several flights.

“We’re nearly there,” Trill said, perhaps sensing his hesitation. “Mentor is waiting.”

“Is this your main base, then?” asked Dane as they began walking. “Or simply a safe house?”

“This compound stretches on below most of this level,” she replied. “It was always part of our holdings, as a fortress of retreat. Now it has become our home.”

“Ever since Naurkuroi parked her shriveled arse on Mentor’s rightful seat,” Fifer added. She and Clarion both spat.

Dane considered the politics further whilst they continued down the staircase. The Barbaroi couldn’t move against the princess because she had oversight on the bureaucracy of the city, as well as considerable manpower in the open. They were not a military, and even if they had been, Dkhaniye’s architecture and land forms were hostile to a traditional invading force. The Barbaroi had notoriety to act as propaganda, and subterfuge on their side, but evidently they lacked the numbers to engage the forces of House Naurkuroi openly - werewolves notwithstanding.

He wondered if that had influenced Mentor’s choice to induct him. She might like the idea of a silver bullet in the form of a half-vampire. Well, he had never faced a lycan in battle, nor did he fancy his odds against more than one at a time. 

His father had fought a _ wolfwere _ once, and had claimed to have beaten it handily - but that was distinct from a werewolf, if the name was any indication. In any case, it wasn’t as if Dane could ring up the old man for tips. Not that his pride would allow it even if that was an option. He hadn’t had much time to process the whole siccing-spies-and-assassins-on-him thing, but he was beginning to feel he had much reason to be sore about it. 

Sometimes he wondered why he bothered being sarcastic in his own head.

The stairway opened up after it veered right, into a long chamber with high, vaulted arches supporting the ceiling. It was an older, more dignified style of architecture than the majority of the buildings Dane had seen, even the centuries-old palace cathedral. This place seemed truly ancient, something pre-eminent and heathen about the place. A bathhouse came to mind for some reason, but there were no pools. Instead, there were braziers, statues, magical foci, and ceremonial weapons displays to each side of an aisle that led to another staircase, this one ornamental as well as functional. It rose to meet a platform with a large set of doors. Two aisles, equally large, went left and right of the platform, deeper into the compound.

There was another thing. Sitting, standing, or leaning in the arches were black-garbed drow of all shapes and sizes. Looking more closely, there were even a few exceptions, like Dane - mostly tieflings and surface elves, but he thought he even spotted a lone human. As Trill led their small party down the aisle, the Sisters lounging around straightened, rose to their feet, and watched them intently.

Dane returned their curious looks. Here, most of them had their face masks down. He saw a good number of piercings adorning noses and lips, as well as facial tattoos that cut through the mouth in a dark slash or x-shape. 

Clarion noticed him staring at one, a tall, muscular drow with close-cropped hair with one such tattoo. “She has taken a vow of silence,” he whispered in Dane’s ear. “In the ultimate devotion to our creed.”

“Is that what the tattoo means?” Dane asked.

“Usually. It’s a way to take your commitment further, if you want to.” Clarion shrugged. “I’ve considered it a few times.”

Fifer snorted. “You’d break it in the time it takes to lace up my boots.” She shouldered in between him and Dane. “Look sharp. We’ve got trouble.”

Someone had stepped into the aisle in front of Trill. With a start, Dane recognized her as the drow from his interview the night before - the one with knives in her hair, who had protested when Mentor had approached him.

She was dressed similarly to Trill, perhaps denoting similarity in rank. But this woman had light magenta skin, with bluish-black hair and a wiry frame beneath her studded leather armor. 

“Trill,” she said, raising her chin.

“Konon,” Trill said coolly, holding her gaze. “You can step aside. He passed.”

Konon’s eyes flicked over the group, locking on Dane. “Then you’re in agreement with her?”

“Even if I wasn’t,” said Trill pointedly, “Mentor made her decision. My role is already decided.”

Konon scoffed. “Mentor’s _ decision _ puts us all in grave danger. This isn’t the time to be putting blind faith in outsiders.” Not lifting her gaze from Dane, she wrinkled her nose. “Nor is this one worth risking herself by traveling off-spire.”

Dane briefly considered a suave interjection, something like, ‘well, fuck you too,’ but to his surprise, both Clarion and Fifer stepped forward as if to come to his defense. It was only at a raised hand from Trill that they said nothing.

“Mentor will do what she wants, you know that,” Trill said. “It’s our job to take care of the details. And right now, she’s expecting to initiate our new recruit.” She nodded toward the doors. “So, if you don’t mind.”

Konon remained in place for a moment, but then scowled and turned aside. The other Sisters, who had been watching this contest with rapt anticipation, seemed to relax. “I’ll be watching,” she said to Trill.

Trill smiled tightly. “I thought you might.”

Dane looked back at Konon as Trill led them past her. She crossed her arms and leaned against a pillar, still glaring at him. Some of the other Sisters had gathered around her; still more had fallen in behind Fifer at the back of the group.

In due course, they reached the doors, which Trill approached and raised her fist to give a single knock. At her cue, they swung open, nearly silent - they must have been perfectly balanced, or somehow assisted by magic. No one seemed to be operating a winch or any other means to open them manually.

Beyond the doors was a large hall with a tiled floor and many hanging chandeliers of glowing crystal. At the opposite end was a dais with an angular throne, upon which sat an elegant figure - Mentor, herself. At first, she appeared to be alone, but as the procession neared her, a few took up position on either side of her. Konon was one of them, reinforcing Dane’s impression that she was a lieutenant of some sort.

Trill motioned for Dane to stop when they were about ten feet from the dais, and then stepped around behind him so that he stood facing Mentor on his own. He felt only interest from the matriarch, putting aside Konon’s baleful gaze, but all the same, he was beginning to feel his nerves. 

“Dane von Zarovich,” Mentor said, leaning forward in her seat. “One who would be of the Barbaroi. We have heard your petition to join our sisterhood and we are prepared to accept and teach you, as we teach our own.” She paused.

Dane moistened his lips. “Thank-”

“Sponsor,” she continued. “Step forward.”

Trill drew level with Dane now, ignoring his sidelong look.

“Trill Gotorrah, you have tested him in combat. Where does he stand?”

Trill stood at attention, but still looked relaxed. “I have not found him wanting, Mentor.”

“Very well.” Mentor sat back. “And will you, from this moment forth, teach, guide, and protect him as you would one of your sisters, until such time as he formally becomes one?”

“I will,” Trill said with casual certainty. 

“Will you instruct him in the ways of our creed?”

“I will.”

“Then do so.”

Trill turned to him. “Dane, kneel.”

Dane had never knelt to anyone. Not even his father. Regardless, he felt no compunctions at kneeling now. He sank to his knees on the tiles and looked to Trill for further instruction.

“Our creed is simple. Stay your blade from the lives of the innocent. Remain hidden, in plain sight. Never compromise the Sisterhood.” She met his eyes. “Learn it. Live by it.”

Mentor nodded at him. “Will you do this?”

“I will,” Dane said.

“Then you are no longer an outsider.” Mentor rose. “Give him clothes and a bed. Tomorrow, he will wake on the path to sisterhood.”

“This way,” whispered Clarion behind him. Trill smiled as Dane got to his feet. Together with Fifer, they led him out of the hall.


	5. The Hierophant (Upright)

The white timber wolf was truly an odd sight on the streets of Dkhaniye, but for their part, the jaded pedestrians paid it little mind.

Such an animal was rare and just for that could be considered suspicious, but many spellcasters allowed their exotic and unique familiars to wander the city unbidden. Wolves were now popular pets for nobles as well, given where Princess Naurkuroi’s favor fell of late, but those were usually lean Shadowfell wolves or wolves from surface exits to the south. Still, even as its pure-white coat stood out, the wolf’s musky smell endeared it to the guards as one of their own, and they let it pass unmolested.

A stray dog looked up from where it drank in the gutter and barked, trotting over to the wolf with its tongue lolling out. But this wolf was on a mission and didn’t stop. It padded up the main street, past the cathedral, and into the upper market square. This was a wealthier part of town, but public enough that business was still conducted outdoors, and the square was lively with traffic.

Traffic enough for Barbaroi to hide among them, even on the stoop of their enemy’s place of worship.

Trill Gotorrah sat on the steps of the cathedral, off to the side so as not to interrupt any parishoners. Mass was currently in session, however, so she disturbed no one and went undisturbed - and unobserved. 

The white wolf weaved through the market stalls and browsing citizenry toward the steps, whereupon it clambered up to where Trill sat and regarded her with large, yellow eyes.

“Well, hello,” she cooed. “And to what do I owe this exquisite pleasure?”

The wolf allowed her to scratch it behind the ears.

“Ah, you like that, yes?” Trill cocked her head. “Now. What brings you here?”

Butting its head into her hand, the wolf made no answer. Obviously. Because it was a wolf. Definitely, one hundred per cent a wolf that could not talk.

Trill suddenly pulled her hand away and laughed. “Enough, Dane. I know it’s you.”

Its hair standing on end, the wolf snarled and folded in on itself. With a puff of magical feedback, Dane was deposited on his rump in the same spot, sulking.

“How?” he exclaimed. “Even when I polymorph!”

Trill shook her head, grinning. “I told you _ not _to polymorph, as I recall.”

“Next time I won’t bother. I’ll just turn into fucking _ gas. _”

Clarion and Fifer, who had been separately blending into the crowd, came up behind him. None of them wore their assassins’ garb today - instead, they wore civilian clothes. Dane in an outfit much the way he used to dress, Fifer in her barmaid’s outfit, Clarion in scholar’s clothes, and Trill as...what, exactly? To be honest, she looked like an actor. She wore fitted leather pants and a white shirt with a corset that cinched in the back. The collar hung open about her neck.

“Don’t give up just yet,” Clarion said, hopping onto the railing. “You fooled Fifer and me at first.”

“He fooled _ you, _” Fifer snorted. “No wolf’s that needy. ‘Oh, Trill, please give me all the scritches!’ Good boy!” She thrust her hand into Dane’s hair and did her best to muss it up. “You’re such a good boy!”

“Bugger off!” Dane said, snatching at her wrist, but she danced back, leering. Heat had risen to his cheeks. “Stand and fight, woman!”

“Are you sure? That’ll be another alchemy lecture if you lose.” Fifer’s eyebrows rose smugly.

Dane stood, balling his fists. “And if I should win? What then, oh master of ceremonies?”

Fifer stuck her tongue out at him. “Then I’ll pet your dear little head the way you like it next time.”

“Fifer,” Trill said mildly, but for once it was too little, too late. Dane lunged.

Clarion grabbed him under his arms and held him back. “Easy, easy! Queen’s hips, you take her bait every time, don’t you? Do you have to antagonize him?” he added, turning on Fifer while Dane was still struggling.

Backing off, Fifer had raised her hands in mock surrender. “All part of the training. If he can’t keep a cool head, he’ll never make it as a Sister.”

“_ Quiet. _” Trill hissed. “We’ve made a scene.”

The three of them froze and looked around. It looked like two junior priestesses had left the cathedral and were staring at them from an awning by the side entrance. One of them turned to the other and said something, pointing.

“Fifer,” said Trill, using her Leader Voice. “Pretend you’ve been put off and walk away. We’ll meet you at the shop. Clare and I will take Dane through old town and shake off anyone who follows us.”

Fifer silently obeyed, turning in seeming disgust and marching back down the street, the way Dane had come as the wolf.

Dane shook Clarion off. “I’m fine.”

“Right, now we move.” Trill took the lead, heading through the market. 

Following her, Dane might have used the time to brood over Fifer’s teasing, but he’d grown used to it over the past month or so. Instead, he felt the tension it had built up melt away as he glanced back surreptitiously to monitor the priestesses. They remained under the awning, watching them go.

“Doesn’t look like they’ve called the guards,” he said.

“That’s good. Although I almost would have preferred your rowdiness garner consequences.” Trill fixed him with a stern look. “I’ll talk to Fifer if I have to, but she’s right about you.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Dane sighed. “Still had a bit of the wolf in me, that’s all.”

She pursed her lips. “I’ll lift my ban on morphing, then. I want you to be used to the transition.” With that, her face softened and she turned to face forward again, heading into an alleyway.

After a few crossings and turns in awkward silence, Clarion spoke. “You know Fife doesn’t mean any harm, right? It’s how she shows affection.”

Dane regarded him dubiously. “So you’ve said. Many times.”

“I mean it. You should hear how she talks about you when you’re not around. She’s as fond of you as Trill and I, just has trouble showing it to your face.” He shrugged. “Always been that way.”

“Yes, well,” Dane said. “She’s better than Konon, I suppose.”

Clarion laughed. “Oh, come on. Even she’s warmed up to you.”

“No,” said Dane flatly. “No, she hasn’t.”

Trill pulled up short all of a sudden. Clarion looked past her. “Uh, Trill, this is a dead end.”

She turned back to face them. “We’re checking one last time if we’re being tailed.”

The three of them waited. They were in between two buildings, one a storehouse, one a tannery. The pungent smell of the tannery assaulted Dane’s nose. These streets weren’t quite as busy, so the view out of the alley didn’t reveal anyone passing.

After a long moment, Trill said. “Alright, think we’re in the clear.”

A sound. A sort of _ tap. _ Coming from around the corner.

“Wait,” Dane said. Was that a footstep?

Clarion and Trill looked at him.

“Someone _ is _coming,” he said. “They’re alone. But they have some notion of stealth.”

“Good,” Trill said. “Take care of it. You’re not to kill them.”

“Naturally.” Killing someone who had tailed them after they’d been seen would only arouse suspicion. That left confronting the perpetrator and convincing them to give up the search.

Dane rounded the corner to see one of the priestesses from before, edging along the wall of the building. Her eyes went wide as he appeared before her. She was clutching a wide, triangular knife in her hand, and didn’t look quite on the cusp of elven adulthood.

He smiled at her beneficently and let his pheromones flow, wafting toward her in thick plumes invisible to the naked eye. “Run along now,” he purred. “This part of town is dangerous.”

The young priestess breathed in through her nose and her eyes glazed over. She was much more affected than Yvienne at the Duchess had been, now that Dane had a handle on his powers. “Y-yes, I think I shall,” she said weakly. She turned on her heel, slightly wobbly, and began retracing her steps up the road.

Dane rolled his shoulders back and relaxed as Trill came around the corner.

“Well done,” she said. 

“I wasn’t sure it would work, what with the stench from that tannery,” he said ruefully.

Trill nodded. “That’s why you were right to approach her downwind of it. One of us might never think about such things, but with your abilities, we might as well make use of them. That means more variables to consider. Ultimately, it sharpens your mind.”

They made their way back to the book shop, where Fifer would be waiting. Sometimes they approached a crowded street separately, so as not to attract the guards by moving with purpose. While they traveled, Dane was finally able to think. Trill had proven an able teacher, thoughtful and taking his..._ uniquities _ in proper stride. She taught him in the Barbaroi tradition, but made sure his dhampiric abilities factored into every lesson. And, despite letting Fifer run wild every now and then, she had a firm hand in discipline. Yet, even when she used her Leader Voice or scolded him, it wasn’t demeaning. He had hated being reprimanded by his tutors as a child, but Trill did it in such a way that he still felt like they were on equal footing.

Well, maybe that was just wishful thinking. 

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up where he could still feel the ghost of her hand. Well, that and Fifer yanking on his hair. Thanks, Fifer.

Speaking of, Fifer was loitering outside the bookstore when they arrived. She uncrossed her arms and straightened up at the sight of them. “What took you so long?”

“Ran into some trouble,” Clarion said. “But Dane took care of it handily, didn’t you, Dane?”

And _ then _there was Clarion. At first, Dane had thought him patronizing, but it turned out he was just so far in Dane’s corner that he made it his business to ooze positive reinforcement. Dane definitely preferred Trill’s cool, sparing praise, offered only when he earned it, but had to admit it was good for his morale to have Clarion cheer him on.

“I’d hardly have called it trouble,” he said. “But it had eyes and ears, and a tongue to speak what it saw and heard. So yes, it needed dealt with.”

“Good,” Fifer said, not to him, but to Trill. “He’s learning.”


	6. The Magician (Reversed)

The Continentale was a high-class venue, considered to be the finest inn and brothel in all of Dhkaniye. Its escorts were good for conversation, company on an evening out, and of course, sexual services, but their education was so  _ renaissance _ that they were sometimes even employed as tutors. Favored by traders and nobles, it had seen much business of repute, and multiple coups were planned within its walls - including the usurpation of the city by Princess Naurkuroi.

The walk to the northern quarter spanned several blocks from The Lonely Pen, the book shop that Dane had come to know intimately as the main entrance and exit to the Barbaroi stronghold. He, Fifer, and Clarion split up, taking separate routes to converge at the agreed-upon spot where Trill was waiting.

The streets were slowing down, as was usual for evening in this part of the city, although it wasn’t so much a clear reduction in foot traffic as a change in variety. Night shift workers, street cleaners, and the city guard took the place of daytime pedestrians. The passing of priestesses was less frequent, and accompanied by more protection. And of course, the guards themselves would be more confrontational - and more wolfish.

Dane gave them a wide berth. It was fortunate that wearing all black didn’t set the Barbaroi apart; what he really had to conceal was the deadly phantom blade strapped to his right wrist. If he had a Voiceless tattoo across his mouth, like some of his future Sisters, that would be even more damning. Clarion had once told him, in hushed tones, that the first such tattoos had been taken on after their bearers’ tongues were cut out by Naurkuroi enforcers. Some of the current Voiceless had indeed been mutilated, but others simply took the vow in solidarity.

As such, he left his facemask down, so as not to draw suspicion that he might be concealing something.

Upon reaching the Continentale, he saw Trill, Fifer and Clarion loitering in front of a building across the street. The brothel itself was well lit, the front decorated with trellises of crawling vines, flowers and toadstools, colored lanterns lighting a path to the doors. It was towering and sprawling, with more windows than he would have expected in such a place. The third floor looked to be a ballroom, from which came more light and the faint sound of music and laughter.

Trill gave him a nod as he approached. She had put her hair up, like she always did for missions. "Third floor balcony, left. That's our target."

Dane settled against the wall next to her and looked up. The balcony wrapped around the Continentale under its tall windows, some of which sported open glass doors. Near the corner of the block was a trio of figures in conversation. Two were duergar, but the third was a ghoul.

"Well, well," Dane said. "From the Shadowfell, is he? Anyone I know?"

"He's a merchant," said Trill. "Name of Du Crasse. In a few minutes he'll leave this party to inspect a shipment of black grape wine from Frigost. That's our opening."

Fifer whistled. "Isn't Frigost wine illegal? That's sensitive cargo."

"That's the point." Trill stood free of the wall, rolling her shoulders back. "Our clients don't like the monopoly he has on smuggling the stuff. Not to mention he has a deal with the wolves, rats out his own buyers." 

Dane wrinkled his nose. "Isn't that bad business?"

"Not to mention poor taste," Clarion added.

Trill eyed him coolly. "Not as such. He informs on Naurkuroi's political enemies exclusively. It's  _ very _ lucrative."

Fifer snorted. "Typical. You oil the blades, Dane?"

Scoffing in mock offense, Dane retrieved a bundle from his person. "Of course I did." He unwrapped it and laid it out, revealing eight lengths of sharpened steel, each seven inches long and about the width of two of his fingers. They were silvered, and had been doused in wolfsbane.

"Looking good," Trill said. "Load up and let's get to work."

The four of them took two blades each and fitted them into the crossbow-like vanes on the underside of their bracers, then collapsed the mechanism. This was the weapon Clarion had used to "warn" Dane of his presence the night he was recruited - the phantom blade, notorious trademark of the Barbaroi. Trill had also strapped on dual scimitars, while Clarion and Fifer brought a bandolier each of long knives, so Dane felt it prudent to bring his sword as well. He'd gotten used to carrying it on his back for ease of movement as he was now, but still preferred a duelist's hip-carry.

Thus armed, he glanced back up at Du Crasse the merchant. "Seems they're wrapping up," he said.

"Right on schedule. Up we go." Trill motioned to Clarion, who dragged a barrel over to the side of the building. One by one, they used it to climb into its low roof, dwarfed by the glittering brothel across the way.

"There he goes," Fifer, who was up first, pointed. "He's leaving by the back staircase."

"Alone?" asked Clarion.

She shook her head. "We should be so lucky. No, he's got two bodyguards with him. The dwarves."

Trill joined them. "That's to be expected. Du Crasse himself isn't combat trained."

Dane pulled himself up behind her, averting his eyes from her rear. When everyone was clad in the form-fitting, ninja-like garb of the sisterhood, it was hard not to appreciate your partners' charms. Needless to say, he'd learned early on to feed well before missions and training. 

Trill looked back at him and pulled up her facemask, covering up a hint of a smile. "You ready? Why don't you take point?"

"Gladly." Dane lifted his own mask and scrambled in front of the group, bringing his heightened senses to bear on Du Crasse and the bodyguards. The merchant was grumbling as they headed to the backstreets, passing a patrol of guards. They'd have to follow from downwind so they wouldn't be sniffed out. "Stay low," he said, and tensed his legs for a jump.

Dhampiric strength and speed had given him a marked advantage when first learning urban parkour from the Sisters. However, it had taken longer to place his landings safely and so that he didn't lose momentum. Now, he leapt, swung, vaulted, and climbed as fluidly as the others - with the exception of Fifer, who was as flexible as a bowstave and made up for his speed by being significantly lighter. 

Pushing past a chimney to run along the apex of a tenement roof, Dane led them past the patrol of guards, watching the target carefully as he went further into the spire. This wouldn't be the only patrol they passed, and as they got deeper into the city, the rooves would be even lower and less reliable. It was a cobblestone jungle the Barbaroi knew well, but that didn't make it any less treacherous.

Glowdusk had fallen by the time they reached their destination. Du Crasse had gone close to the base of the spire, in a district full of storehouses, convoys, granaries, and indoor farms. A cluster of such buildings formed an impenetrable wall around an empty lot, sequestered behind their perimeter fences, and that was where the merchant stopped. A group of drow, accompanied by a surface-raid detail of driders and retrievers, was waiting for him with a small fleet of keg carts.

"Lot of firepower," Fifer said from at Dane's shoulder. "We don't want to tangle with his guests."

"What's the plan, then?" Clarion spoke from his other side. "Wait till they leave?" 

Dane looked over his shoulder. "Trill?"

She tilted her head, her gaze evaluating. "Your call."

Well, then. If it was going to be like  _ that… _

Thinking carefully, Dane turned back to Du Crasse, who was walking up and down the line of kegs. The man and his bodyguards would be easy to deal with even in a straight fight. The surface raiders were another matter. If Du Crasse became separated from them, though, once he was satisfied with his task, he might let his guard down, and he and his companions would be isolated.

"We wait," he said decisively, sitting back on the roof.

A few tense moments seemed to drag on. Clarion scratched at the shingles below them, bored, as Du Crasse bickered with the leader of the raid team. The streetlamps' orange glow, trapped on the other side of the warehouses, played on the slope of the roof. 

Trill crawled forward on her belly, pulling up next to Dane. She didn't speak, but her question was clear.

"Just a bit longer," he said. "Once he's finished and back around the corner, out of sight. If we time it right, we won't have to bother with the bodyguards."

"Good," she said. "You can make the strike. We'll get in position for cover fire." With a few hand signals to Fifer and Clarion, she moved to the opposite side of the roof, overlooking the lot's exit.

Dane narrowed his eyes as Du Crasse and the leader of the drow appeared to conclude their business. The merchant motioned to one of his bodyguards; money exchanged hands, and then the two groups parted. Du Crasse and his men came toward the roof, heading out of the lot - exactly the way Dane wanted them to go. 

"You're up, Dane," Clarion said. "Time it right."

" _ Place  _ it right," added Fifer.

Dane slid down the incline of the roof to alight on the edge of the gutter, balancing silently on the tips of his toes. Du Crasse's bodyguards, being both duergar, weren't tall enough to block his aim. He disengaged the locks on his phantom blade and lined up the shot. 

Trill's voice, calm but firm, rang in his head.  _ Wrist straight, eye on your target. Breathe in...palm up.  _

He bent his wrist backward. With a nigh-imperceptible hiss of metal on metal, the bracer's string snapped, sending a blade whispering through the air toward Du Crasse's neck.

It never met its mark. At the last second, Du Crasse turned, wide-eyed, as the blade shattered a glowing pink magical barrier in front of his face. The source of the shield, a cheap, dispensable warding rune strung around his neck, crumbled, its remains falling to the ground along with the thwarted phantom blade.

One of Du Crasse’s bodyguards yelled for him to find cover, putting himself between the merchant and Dane’s roof. The other unslung a heavy crossbow, looking around wildly.

Two more phantom blades snapped; Fifer and Clarion had fired. The duergar ushering Du Crasse on fell in a spray of blood, clutching his opened throat. The other, holding the crossbow, dove to the side just in time. 

Du Crasse ran. 

Dane was already up, racing along the rooftops parallel to the street. He leaped over an open balcony, dodging a crossbow bolt from the remaining bodyguard in the street. A split second later, his ears picked up the swish of another phantom blade, most likely Trill’s, and the crossbowman’s body hit the ground with a muffled thud.

He had one blade left to fire, but he wasn’t confident in hitting Du Crasse while they were both running and on different levels. He needed to get into the street. As he ran, he cycled the fresh blade into place, locking it so it would deploy, but not fire; the weapon’s dual function as a simple spring-loaded knife. In a matter of seconds, he had overtaken Du Crasse.

Dane skidded to a stop, showering the flagstones below with terra-cotta shingles, and jumped off the roof, pouncing with his blade arm outstretched.

He collided with Du Crasse, his blade piercing the meat of the ghoul’s nape and slicing into his carotid artery. Dane’s hand hit his shoulder as it sank in, and his weight carried Du Crasse to the ground. With the dying merchant pinned below him, Dane managed to land on his foot and knee, shock rolling up his legs.

There was hardly time to look up from his kill before a howl echoed up the street, sheeting his bones with ice. Doors burst open and armored hulks spilled out, some of them charging ahead on all fours, bristled hair poking between warped steel plates.

“Crossbows!” snarled a voice from the untransformed group. “Successive fire!” 

_ Move!  _ Dane screamed internally, and sprang off of Du Crasse, dashing over to the building he’d leapt from. Trill was calling to him, signaling a retreat. There were too many to fight. It had been a setup from the very start, it  _ must  _ have been.

He scrambled up the wall, just barely getting an elbow over the edge as crossbow bolts began pelting the stone below him. Clarion appeared above him and reached down, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him the rest of the way. Dane rolled onto the shingles, panting, forcing himself to his feet. 

“Run!” cried Fifer. “Keep low!”

At the foot of the building, the berserking werewolves had caught up, snapping and slavering at the walls, jumping on their hind legs to swipe at Dane and Clarion’s feet. Their eyes were glowing embers, their teeth thick and hooked for tearing flesh. The smell of their breath,  _ stale blood _ and  _ meat _ and  _ musk _ , burned Dane’s nose. 

He and Clarion cleared one rooftop, jumping to meet Trill and Fifer. Fifer caught Dane, steadying him and swinging him onward. Clarion wasn't so lucky. A wolf came up from below, slammed its jaws shut on the wraps of his boot. He yelled as he pulled up short midair, stumbling and skidding off the lip of the roof.

Trill moved in a blur of black, grabbing his tunic and throwing out her arm. Her phantom blade caught the wolf across the muzzle, and it thrashed, tearing a chunk of Clarion's boot free and falling back to earth. 

As Trill pulled him up, a crossbow bolt whistled through the air and buried itself in her thigh. She fell flat on her back against the roof, a wail of pain on her lips. There were more wolves now, scrabbling at the edge of the roof, gobs of rancid saliva dripping from their fangs. One of them got a paw up, swiped at Trill's prone body.

"Trill!" Fifer was gone from Dane's side, her long knives coming out in a rasp of steel as she ran past Clarion and dove off the roof, pouncing on the nest of teeth below. Clarion struggled to help Trill up, cursing as her wounded leg buckled and nearly carried them both over the edge.

Dane ran to them as another bolt flew by him, so close he felt the breeze on his cheek. He grasped Trill with one hand and Clarion with the other, hauling them to safety. 

"We have to help Fife!" panted Clarion.

"I've got Trill," Dane said. "Go!"

Clarion let him take her weight and drew his own knives, springing off to where Fifer had dropped, now consumed with growls and the clash of tempered metal. 

Dane had no clue if Fifer was alive. For now, he could do nothing; Trill was too badly hurt to be of any use, and she would be a sitting duck if he left her here. He hoisted her into a bridal carry, and she grunted in pain, throwing her arms about his neck. A chimney adorned the roof several yards away. It would have to do.

Ignoring the crossbows aimed at his back, Dane pushed what speed he had to its very limit, rounding the chimney and depositing Trill behind it, where she could lean against it. 

"We have to run," she gasped through gritted teeth. "

"I'll get them," he said. "Are you out of blades?"

Trill held up her empty bracer.

Dane ejected his remaining blade, the one slick with DuCrasse's black blood, and offered it to her. 

She took it and prepared it to fire with stained fingers. Her own red blood was streaking her leg in thick rivulets, the crossbow bolt still jutting from the meat of her thigh. Its scent was much more pleasing to Dane’s nose than that of the werewolves. “Go,” she said.

Dane drew his sword, newly silvered by the Barbaroi’s most trusted smiths, and darted across the roof. The hail of bolts had stopped now that werewolves were in the line of fire, and the guards down the street were running to catch up, still in their human forms. Those in front - there were five of them, two in wolf form, three in hybrid form - were clogging the mouth of the alley below him, barking and jockeying for position. 

Fifer and Clarion’s knives flashed in shining arcs, keeping them at bay. Clarion was limping badly, and Fifer was bleeding from her nose and arm. They would be overwhelmed in a matter of seconds.

Tensing his legs, Dane dropped to the floor of the alley, stabbing his sword downward. He caught a wolf on the foreleg, heard it yelp as it danced back. Rolling to his feet, he drew up to his full height, only to barely turn aside a swipe from a towering hybrid, feeling red-hot lines pull the skin of his chest apart. 

It was superficial, but Dane still reeled with the blow. The other wolves pressed the attack, backing him, Clarion, and Fifer up to the wall. The alley, once a choke point to defend themselves, was being turned against them. There was no longer space to use their weapons and maintain distance. 

One of the hybrids, the one which seemed to be in the lead, let loose another bone-chilling howl, then licked its chops mockingly at its prey.

Dane pulled down his facemask, hissing with fangs bared, red light streaming from his eyes. Outnumbered as he was, it wouldn’t cow them to do that alone, so he poured magic into his actions. A simple spell, but a good one, with excellent range. 

_ Fear me, _ he willed in desperation.  _ Corner a dhampir and see what happens. _

The werewolves’ pupils contracted violently, and they stumbled back, as if struck. Even some of them further down the street balked as the force of the spell hit them. It wouldn’t last long, but it bought time; time enough to get Clarion and Fifer out of danger.

“Fifer!” Dane called, beckoning her to the wall. He dropped his sword, clasped his hands, and knelt to give her a boost up. Fifer planted her foot on his palms and let him propel her up the wall, leaning down to give Clarion a hand up as he took her place. With both of them over the roof, Dane smeared the dust from their boots on his hands. It would help keep his grip on his sword.

Before he could decide what to do next, the lead hybrid, recovered from his fear spell, lunged at him with a deep snarl. He deflected a slash of its claws with his sword, but felt the weapon knocked aside, jarring his wrist and elbow. A bite came next, the lycan’s maw gaping and hungry for blood. Its teeth came right for his face, and he didn’t have time to sacrifice his free hand-

A telltale whisper folded the werewolf at the neck, steam rising from the wound of a phantom blade. It whined, careening into the wall of the alley, and Dane glanced up to see Trill, biting her lip in pain, with her arm outstretched, held up by Clarion and Fifer.

“Go!” he shouted. “I’ll lead them away!” Two of the wolves were bearing down on him now.

“Dane, no!” Clarion argued. “Come on!”

“I said  _ go! _ ” Dane closed his eyes and focused. 

Focused on his mind splintering, fragmenting, ablating to the molecular level, his whole body vibrating apart into wisps of heat and thought. He felt a rush of weightlessness, and then he was scattered, billowing across updrafts and currents of the wolves’ hot breath, swirling in the vortex of temperature shock created by the absence of his body. He was mist and gas and smoke, he was all of these things. He was the last resort of his species, both for infiltration and escape.

Right now, he intended to escape. 

He coiled into one translucent tendril and spiraled into the air, flying past the werewolves at the mouth of the alley and scattering himself in one large burst. It was as if one of the Barbaroi had used a smoke bomb, and the guards coughed, swiping at him angrily, but their claws parted him as easily as thin air, and he felt no pain.

The smoke re-formed into a mobile tendril, shooting down the street through the main group of armored guards and through the smoke trail of a chimney.

“There! It’s trying to lose us in the smoke!” one of them shouted. “After it!”

_ That’s right,  _ Dane thought grimly.  _ Follow me, you mangy bastards. Forget them. Come and stake me if you can.  _

Another howl went up - this one echoed by the group, and of a different tone. The street came alive again with clomping boots and thudding paws as they committed themselves to pursuing Dane. He undulated wildly, wrapping around corners, passing through chimneys and the backflow of vents, scraping gutters and tickling eaves. 

Now he needed to find a way to  _ really  _ lose them. 

It took several blocks before he found what he needed: a pyre, burning for some offering to Lolth. Its sacrifice long turned to cinders, now it was a flaming tangle of timber, fire bright and swelling, raising thick smoke past the tip of the spire. 

Dane flew right through it, knowing the wolves would go  _ around  _ the fire, as animals’ instincts demanded. It was then that he made another change.

The werewolves streamed around the perimeter of the pyre, scattering the parishoners gathered there, and pulled up, having lost the trail on the other side. As they pawed at the ground, snapping at the smoke from the fire, none of them noticed a smaller, pure-white wolf slinking away, panting with exhaustion.

Dane padded around the corner before he broke into a run, forcing what energy he had left into the sinewy legs of the winter wolf. He did his best to re-trace his steps, but it was difficult trying to recall the choices of his rushed and disassembled consciousness as a gas. That was the trouble with taking  _ that  _ form; its memories came back to him in a jumble. 

Eventually, he cursed his stupidity and ended the transformation, standing on slightly shaky legs. After checking that his sword and phantom blade were secure, he shook his hair behind his shoulders and took a long sniff, honing in on the scent of Trill’s blood - which still decorated his tunic.

He was close, and the trail was still warm. But to follow it, he had to let the scent flood his nostrils, stoke his hunter’s instincts to a level he was normally uncomfortable with. Being attracted to Trill, he could handle. Wanting to  _ feed _ from her, or indeed  _ anyone _ \- that was something else entirely, and not a part of himself he wanted to confront on the regular.

But this was life or death. He would simply have to be disciplined and professional in the aftermath.

Dane let Trill’s blood assault his senses. It was sweet and rich; not as bright as a virgin’s, but oaky, speaking to her age and experience. Like a fine wine. It reminded him of the way she normally smelled, the spices and spell ingredients that hung off her like honeysuckle on an evening breeze. Gods, he  _ wanted  _ her. Not just her blood,  _ all  _ of her.

_ Fuck _ , he thought.  _ No. That’s your thirst talking. Get it under control. It’s wrong to think of her in this way. _

Trying to focus on the smell itself and not who it was associated with, Dane took long strides, following the winding streets past the still-glowing windows of the Continentale and taking the route they had agreed upon back to the Lonely Pen. He had to duck away from several patrols: the guards were on high alert after a Barbaroi sighting, but their movements told him they hadn’t found his comrades.

He slunk across the road as one group of them passed the shop, watching their backs with baleful eyes. Trill’s scent was thick here, but luckily, his nose was more sensitive still than even a werewolf’s. 

Pushing open the door, Dane walked to the rigged shelf, manipulated the entrance, and descended the long staircase, its stone steps worn by centuries of feet. As he reached the bottom, He saw Clarion and Fifer, supporting Trill between them, stepping off the final landing. So they had arrived only a fraction earlier. It made sense; they couldn’t move fast with Trill and Clarion’s respective injuries.

Fifer saw him first. “Dane!” She nudged Trill, who put a hand on Clarion’s shoulder. The three of them stopped and waited for him to catch up.

Trill regarded him with bleary eyes, but retained her faculties enough to be concerned. “Alright?”

“I lost them at a sacrificial pyre,” Dane said. “They’re probably still looking for me three districts out.”

“Good,” she said. Her breath was coming deep and irregular.

“She’s passed out on her feet twice,” Clarion informed him. “Bolt’s still in there. It missed her femoral artery, but only just. We need a healer to pull it out.”

“You all need a healer,” Dane observed. “Let me help.”

Fifer ducked out from under Trill’s arm and let Dane take her place. As Trill’s weight settled onto his shoulders, Dane stiffened, willing away his focus on the scent of her blood. He could hear her pulse in her throat, and although it was tantalizing, it also disturbed him how slow and weak it had grown over time. She had lost a lot of blood on the journey.

“Come on,” Fifer said. “Bax is already waiting for us.”

That was good. Bax was in charge of the Barbaroi’s healers in this hideout, on account of being the best. He was the only human in the Sisterhood, as far as Dane knew, but his talents weren’t for combat, so he got away with not being able to do the fancier tricks that required mixed blood.

Dragging Trill to Bax’s clinic took some doing, but eventually they reached one of the smaller rooms, finding a table prepared and a young, slim man rolling up the sleeves of his robe. Bax was unremarkable, with brown hair, brown eyes, and a face that was difficult to describe, but that was what Dane found likeable about him. He wasn’t stunningly beautiful like most of the company he kept, and that lent him a certain authenticity that the drow, in particular, often lacked.

“There you are,” Bax said. “What a sorry mess!” He smoothed a sterile cloth over the tabletop and pulled over a chair for himself. “For stealthy assassins, you sure look like you were noticed pretty hard.”

“Shut up, Bax,” said Fifer.

He looked her over. “Nose isn’t broken, and you can bandage that arm yourself. I’ll heal it if you like, but later.” He looked at Clarion. “Your ankle swell at all?”

Clarion shrugged. “Can’t tell.”

“Twisted, then.” Bax saw Trill’s leg. “Oooh.  _ Ooooh.  _ Yeah, lay her down here.”

Dane helped Trill sit on the table, trying to be as gentle as possible. She leaned on him heavily, wincing in pain as the back of her legs touched the surface.

“Easy, now,” said Bax. “I’m going to have to get that out, but I need you as still as possible. I’ll cast a spell to numb the pain, but it’s still going to feel weird, so I can’t have you squirming.”

“I know,” Trill said. “Dane, hold me still.”

Dane almost did a double take. “Ah...where…?”

“My leg,” she said.

“Right.” Swallowing, Dane hovered his hands over her wounded thigh, trying to avoid jarring the crossbow bolt embedded there. He settled on gripping her just above the knee and just below the hip. Trill settled back against a pillow Bax had laid on the table, exhaling hard through her teeth.

“Just a moment longer, now,” said Bax. “Here you go.” He wove a spell into the air, light leaking from his hand into Trill’s leg. 

She gasped, then sighed as she relaxed, her pain and tension melting away. As the muscles in her thighs loosened, the crossbow bolt seemed to shift around. Dane also felt her body, now free from the distraction of suffering, begin to respond to his hands on her.

“Keep her still,” Bax said, hefting a pair of tongs. “This will take a minute.”

As he gripped the shaft of the bolt and began to wiggle it out, trying to do as little damage with the barbs as possible, Trill shivered, her hands fisting in the tablecloth. Dane averted his eyes from the rise and fall of her chest, the way her tunic stuck to her body, soaked with sweat. The scent of her blood rose to his nose again, fresh and more cloying than ever.

He forced his instincts down.  _ No. No!  _ He would  _ not  _ turn into a panting, drooling lunatic over this.  _ Especially  _ not over this. It was the wrong time, the wrong place, and as far as he was concerned, there would never  _ be  _ a right time or place. He was taking advantage of Trill’s trust right now.

Disgust and self-loathing rose up like bile in his throat. He was grateful for those emotions. They gave him clarity with which to beat back his lust. He would not be like other vampires, most of all his father - addicted to blood and sex and all forms of vapid decadence.

Fifer had wrapped up the cut on her arm, and was now watching Bax work impassively. Clarion was sitting behind them, resting his ankle. It was deathly quiet, and Dane had to wonder if that was out of concern for Trill, or if somehow the tension inside him had leaked out into the room.

Trill was sweating, her eyes shut tight; it seemed even Bax’s spell couldn’t protect her from all the pain involved in this procedure. Dane was acutely aware of his fingers denting the muscle of her thigh, of the soft sounds she made as the crossbow bolt was worked free, every inch offering her more relief.

Abruptly, Bax pulled back, holding the blood-soaked bolt between his tongs. “Got it! We’re done. Now I can heal that proper. Stay right there, Trill.” 

Trill nodded, and glanced at Dane, her expression strangely apologetic. He dipped his head and released her, retreating to the wall with his hands behind his back.

Bax worked quickly, then let Trill rest as he moved on to Clarion’s ankle and Fifer’s arm. Dane rubbed his hands together, overcome by the sensation that they were filthy. Dirt and blood caked them, yes, but what he wanted escape from was Trill - all the trappings of her, her smell, the specter of her flesh pressed into his. He could feel his heart in his throat. He hadn’t lost much blood from the scratches in his chest, but he had used a lot of energy. 

He needed to feed, and fast.

Jander had sent him cold-capsules, like the ones he’d stolen from his father’s castle, so he wouldn’t have to hunt. They were in a hard leather satchel back in his room. If he could hold out till then, he could drink until all thoughts of blood were out of his mind - and then get a cold  _ shower _ for good measure.

While he grappled with this, eyes drilling into the floor, Bax moved in front of him. “Those cuts aren’t deep, are they?” 

Dane looked up at him. “No,” he said. “I wasn’t hit bad.”

“Still, I think you’d rather not ruin your sheets,” Bax said. He passed a hand over the claw marks, and they slowly sealed up with a violent itching sensation. 

With a shudder, Dane relaxed, the absence of forgotten pain startling him. “Thanks.”

“Trill gets to stay,” Bax said, addressing all of them. “The rest of you, out.”

Fifer and Clarion went to the door, Fifer murmuring something to Trill. They stopped to look back at Dane.

Realizing they were waiting for him, Dane moved to the door, nodded at Bax, and kept his eyes off Trill as he left.

Fifer rubbed her arm, still bothered by the aftereffects of the healing spell. “I’m going to go give our report, since Trill can’t,” she said. “You two don’t have to wait up for me, but check in before you go to bed, okay?”

“Sure, Fife,” Clarion chuckled tiredly. “I doubt I’ll get any sleep, anyway.”

Fifer punched his shoulder with an affectionate look, then transferred that look to Dane. “Glad you’re alright,” she said. “That was ballsy, what you pulled.”

Dane barely registered the praise, but managed a thin smile. “Told you I could turn into gas.”

She laughed, not as harshly as usual. “That you did. Right then, I’m off.” Pivoting on her heel, she went down the hallway, heading toward mentor’s quarters.

Clarion and Dane went toward their rooms in relative silence. They were neighbors, so this was a walk they had made many times with little to discuss. They had only just rounded the last corner, though, when Clarion turned on him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, earnestly, but with unexpected firmness.

Dane looked him in the eyes. “Why?”

“Because you’ve been clenching your fists hard enough to draw blood ever since we left the clinic,” Clarion said. “Dane, if something’s wrong, you can tell me.” He searched Dane’s face, large amber eyes imploring him.

Obviously, Dane couldn’t admit what had happened directly. He sighed. “I’m tired, that’s all. I need a bath. And a drink.”

Clarion smiled, hiding that he was still worried. “I’ve got a bottle of Frigost vintage under my bed, if you want to come in and talk.”

Dane shook his head. “Not that kind of drink, my friend.”

There was a pause. “Oh,” Clarion said. “All right, then.” He hesitated. “Is it because of the fight today?”

“More or less,” Dane admitted. He was only lying by omission. It was better this way. 

Clarion seemed to choose his next words carefully. “If you need... _ blood _ …in an emergency, I want you to know something.” He reached out and touched Dane’s shoulder. “Trill and Fife and I, we’re all crazy about you. We don’t care that your needs are a little different from ours.” His smile grew encouragingly. “If you need us, we’re right there. Even if it’s our own blood.”

Dane heard a roaring in his ears. He felt trapped, panic cloaked in calm. This wasn’t what he wanted. His cousin Lyssa had once told him,  _ Friends and fangs don’t mix. _ He didn’t want to feed from Clarion. He didn’t want  _ Clarion _ to think he needed to  _ let _ Dane feed from him.

Were his pheromones involved in this? Was he mesmerizing Clarion right now? Had he, in his blind lust, ensorcelled Trill while she was being operated on, flesh laid open, at her most vulnerable,  _ with his hands on her, made her writhe and moan like that -  _

“Just not Fifer, okay?” Clarion was saying, jokingly. “She’s too small. I’m big, I can afford to lose it.” He grinned.

Dane’s mouth was dry. “I’ll...try to remember that,” he said. “Thank you, Clarion.”

Clarion beamed. “Well, get what you need and get some rest. I’m going to be up all night, so knock on my door if you’re bored.” He moved aside and his door opened, shutting a beat later.

Dane fell back against his own door, sliding to the floor of the hallway.

He needed that drink, but he couldn’t move. 

He couldn’t move for a long time.


	7. Judgement (Reversed)

The breath rushed out of Dane’s lungs as his arm was twisted sharply behind his back. He felt his legs get swept out from under him, and then he was shoved away. The fall solidly bruised his tailbone.

Just another hand-to-hand session with Konon.

She had been waiting at the training area along with her own teammates, Fifer, and Clarion the day after Trill was wounded. Dane hadn’t necessarily expected Trill to be up and ready to teach again, but he nonetheless hadn’t expected  _ Konon  _ to be her replacement.

“Mentor’s request,” Konon said curtly. “And a favor to Trill. I’m to cover your lesson while she’s recuperating.”

Dane looked at Fifer nervously, who shrugged. He was under no illusions as to Konon’s opinion of him, but she seemed intent on seeing this through, however reluctantly. With a hesitant nod, he asked, “What are we doing?”

Konon shed her tunic abruptly. Underneath it, she wore a tight, thick halter top for wrestling. Her lilac-pink shoulders were littered with spidery scars. “Spar with me,” she said. “Use your bare hands.” And she took up position in the sandy pit between them.

Konon’s crew consisted of a tiefling and two other drow. They were watching expectantly, body language pulled in tight, arms crossed and slouching. Fifer and Clarion were a little more attentive. Clarion flashed Dane a thin smile. Apparently, he was nervous, too.

Dane stripped down to his undershirt and removed his boots, walking barefoot onto the sand. If Konon wanted to test him, he would give her a fight. He knew he had much to learn from the Barbaroi in terms of technical expertise, but his speed and strength lent him a marked advantage. Still, he was wary of her. Trill and the others had proven to him that his enhanced abilities did not guarantee victory.

Such wariness was prudent. Konon proved merciless and she did not hold back or slow down to question Dane’s tactics. Sometimes, Trill would get the upper hand on him, then stop and ask him how he would proceed. Instead of this, Konon simply pinned him and growled critique into his ear.

“ _ No, _ ” she said, frustration simmering behind her teeth. “Not like that.  _ Footwork.  _ One, then the other.”

Dane stood up, shaking out his arm. He’d learned not to wait for her to offer him a hand up. “It would help me if you slowed down,” he protested. “I can’t do it fast if I can’t do it slow.”

Konon scowled. “Very well. Face the wall.”

Turning so she could see his feet, Dane attempted to strafe the way she had told him to. His instinct, as a swordsman, was to step across his body, but he was supposed to step with his outer foot first.

“No crossover!” she barked. “Left!” Her foot lashed out, clipped the inside of his knee. He stumbled. “Brake with the heel of your foot, not your toes!”

Dane whirled on her. “If you’re going to kick me, let’s just fight and have done!”

“If you can’t deal with being corrected,” Konon said, with a detached air. “You won’t get far.”

“I can deal with being  _ corrected, _ ” he snapped. “You don’t have to beat it into me!”

She approached him, jabbing two fingers at his chest. “You are too comfortable in your mistakes. Stop repeating them. Fix them. Make. New. Mistakes.” Spinning on her heel, she put distance between them, raising her fists. “It’s irresponsible of Trill to have let so much slide.”

Dane bristled. “I have no complaints with how Trill handles my training.”

Konon’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “You wouldn’t know the difference.” She shuffled toward him, leading with a left jab.

Weaving, Dane blocked it. That jab had been tagging him all day. His head movement needed work; she wasn’t wrong about that. He pushed forward, throwing a punch of his own, but Konon’s arms and hands were in the way, sticking to his wrists and pulling him off center. 

Her fist plowed into his gut. The impact made him flinch backward.

“You’re sloppy,” she said. Her open palm cuffed his ear. “You don’t defend yourself adequately because you think you don’t have to.”

“I don’t think that,” Dane said through gritted teeth, hauling up on her elbows and striking at her face.

She smothered the blow and retaliated with another sharp punch to his chest, turning her hips to flank him. Caught, Dane tried to square off with her, but she pushed him off balance, leading him around the room as she pummeled the one hand he could shield his face with. The other couldn’t reach her.

“Don’t try to overpower me!” Konon said. “Use your elbows, not your shoulders!”

Dane snarled and planted his foot, swiveling to face her and lashing out with an elbow. She caught his wrist, forced his arm straight, and pulled him past her. It seemed he was floating for a second, and then she dumped him into the sand.

Prodding his ribs with her foot, Konon glared down at him. “You’re wasting both our time,” she said acidly. “If you can’t control yourself, you’re no better than a beast.”

Ah, now that.  _ That  _ hit a nerve.

With a hiss that grew into a shout, Dane exploded from the floor in a shower of sand, leaping at her with hooked fingers outstretched. He swiped, she leaned back, caught his hand and proceeded to use  _ the same wristlock  _ to force him down again. This time, she pressed his joint into the socket harder, so that the pain was what made him kneel more than anything else.

Dane grabbed one of her legs and tried to tackle her, but she sprawled, torquing his arm even further, and pushing his face into the sand. He kicked, then was flipped over, Konon beneath him. She had him in guard, her legs around his waist, knees preventing him from posturing up enough to strike at her with his hands.

Damn it, he was _so close_ to losing control! It would be easy to bite her. His fangs were the only available weapon. It would be  _ child’s play _ to win from this position. Take enough blood and she’d have to let go, and he could use his fists. He arched his back, trying to throw her off. She needed to release him,  _ now. _

Konon’s mouth was a tight line, sweat pouring down her forehead. She seemed to be having trouble controlling his movements for the first time. Her scent was a lot like Trill’s, but ranker; she hadn’t bathed that morning. It almost made things worse. Dane was inches from her neck. He knew what to do, could visualize it - wet the skin with his tongue, pinch it with his front teeth to bring blood to the surface, and sink in his fangs to  _ suck. _

A drop of something wet hit Konon’s cheek. Dane’s mouth hung open, saliva trailing down from his fangs. In horror, he went rigid, clamping his mouth shut, but the damage was done. Something like fear flickered in her eyes, but was quickly replaced by disgust. Dane recoiled, but was still trapped by her guard. The movement brought to his attention another humiliating detail - he had begun to harden in his pants as his hips pressed into hers.

Konon whipped her leg over his shoulder and lashed him down, rolling upright with his arm still trapped in her vice-like grip. With a turn of her hips, she cranked the armbar, sending a white-hot lance of pain from his wrist to his elbow and shoulder. 

“Pathetic,” she spat. “You’ve done very well proving my point.”

Dane writhed, every move searing the muscles in his arm. It was all he could do to try to inch away from the pain. “Away from me,” he gasped. “Not safe!”

Konon pulled harder. “That is why you fail.”

A roar tearing from his throat, Dane thrashed, summoning all the inhuman strength at his disposal. He’d throw her across the room, run for the stairs and out into the street. He didn’t  _ need  _ blood this time; this time had been all rage and  _ want. _ What he needed was air. He needed her to stop hurting him until he understood.

“Let...go!” he forced out. 

“Tap,” said Konon. “Or I’ll break it.”

Dane growled, blinking back hot tears. “Fuck you!”

“You’re an animal,” she said. “A filthy mongrel, just like the wolves sniffing at our doorstep! Trill may pet you and praise you, but I know better. Someone needs to hold your leash, and keep it tight.” 

Clarion shot out of his seat with a curse. “That’s too far! He’s had enough!”

“He can end it!” Konon retorted. She bent Dane’s fingers back. “Tap!”

Dane screamed through his teeth. “I can’t!” He couldn’t move his hand. He couldn’t move anything anymore. 

A door slammed. “Konon!” Trill’s voice rang out, high with fury. “Stop this!”

The pressure on Dane’s arm relaxed slightly. He was able to look over his shoulder, blurred vision registering shapes and movement through a red haze. Trill was coming toward them, a single crutch supporting her wounded leg. Fifer was behind her, wide-eyed.

In seconds, Trill reached the pit. It didn’t seem like her crutch hampered her at all. Her hair was down and wild, perfectly matching the withering look in her eyes. “Release him. Now.”

Konon held her gaze. “Your dog won’t tap, Gotorrah. Someone has to teach him when to quit.”

Trill’s hand trembled on her crutch. “Dane,” she said. “ _ Tap. _ ”

Freed by Konon’s looser grip, Dane struggled to lift the arm he still had to himself, tapping her weakly on the leg.

With that, she let go of his arm, extricating herself smoothly and standing across from Trill. “He should have done it without being told,” she said. “You understand this.”

Dane curled up in the sand between them, pulling his arm to his chest. He could finally breathe, and Trill’s presence was like a block of ice melting on the skin of his back. 

Trill looked down at him, frowned, and turned back to Konon. “Not like this,” she said simply. Then she raised her voice. “We’re leaving.”

Clarion crossed into the pit, grabbing Dane’s armpits and hauling him to his feet. “Come on now, you’re alright.” He let Dane lean on him, while Fifer grabbed his boots and tunic from the floor.

As they made for the door, Trill leaned in toward Konon. “We need to talk,” she said harshly, then hobbled past them out of the room.

Out in the hallway, she forestalled Clarion with a hand on his shoulder, then slid it up to cup Dane’s face. “Dane? Talk to me.”

Dane’s lip was swollen. His fangs had caught it, and it was bleeding. “I lost control."

“You were provoked,” Clarion said angrily. “She did it on purpose.”

“Shh,” said Trill. “We’re going back to my room. What do you need, Dane?”

“Water,” Dane croaked.

“Alright,” she said, and she was gone.

Clarion helped Dane to Trill’s room, clearly seething the whole time. Dane was too numb to react. He remembered pain, thirst, and shame, but they seemed distant now.

Well, maybe the shame wasn’t distant.

Fifer entered the room behind them, closing the inner door. She’d been following him at a distance, and as Clarion sat him on Trill’s bed, Dane saw that she was crying. She pressed his tunic into his hands. 

“I’m sorry!” she sniffled. “I told them what happened at the cathedral! I didn’t - I didn’t think she’d use it against you like that!”

“Fife, calm down,” Clarion said awkwardly. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is, partly!” Fifer said, rounding on him. “Me and my stupid, big mouth!”

Dane stirred. “It’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not!” they both said at once.

“I need to apologize,” Dane said, trying to stand.

Clarion stopped him. “You sit. Trill said so.”

“Konon,” Dane insisted. “I almost-my body-”

The outer door opened, voices flowing in. Clarion, Dane, and Fifer all froze.

“-something you’d like to say to me?” Trill was saying, voice slightly muffled.

“I...am sorry,” Konon said matter-of-factly. “I disciplined him without your consent.”

Trill paused, then spoke calmly, as if to a child. “I am not the one you should be apologizing to.”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Konon said. “And no. I will make that gesture to you, because I’ve wronged you. But not to him.”

“I am not a tool for your  _ discipline _ ,” Trill said. “You disrespect me and shame yourself by using me to goad him. If you take issue with  _ my  _ teaching, with my  _ attitude _ , you know full well you can approach me privately.”

Konon paused. “You are never alone,” she said.

Trill said, “I am now.”

There was a long silence.

“He’s not good for you,” Konon said. “And you’re not good for him. You coddle him too much.”

“What, exactly,” Trill said, “Do you think you’re talking about?”

Konon took a deep breath. “Dane is dangerous,” she said. “I don’t think even  _ he  _ quite knows how much. Keeping him here, this close to Mentor - it’s not wise. And Fifer’s report said that he showed himself to the wolves last night.”

“That was a tactic,” said Trill. “A well-timed use of a fear spell.” 

“It may well have compromised him.” Konon’s voice moved closer to Trill’s. “Trill, Dane is like an animal, hiding in a cave. It came to us wounded, and it’s still wounded. At some point, it’s going to have to come out of its cave and live in our world.”

Trill’s crutch struck the floor. “Don’t speak of him that way.”

“I do not say this to insult him,” Konon said. “I’m worried for him. If the beast that comes out of the cave is a monster, this boy of yours? He won’t survive. And neither will we.”

“I am not afraid of him,” Trill said.

Konon said, “That’s what  _ I’m  _ afraid of.”

Silence.

“Then,” Trill said. “It’s a good thing you’re not my keeper. We don’t belong to each other anymore.”

“Yes,” said Konon softly. “But I cannot lose you all the same.”

There was a scraping sound as Trill leaned her crutch against the wall. “Well, Konon. Dane will never forgive himself for what happened today. For what  _ you  _ pushed him to do. Let that mitigate your selfish worry, while I go patch up all the hard work getting him out of his shell that you just undid for me!”

“Trill!” Konon sounded shaken.

The inner door opened. “Goodbye, Konon,” Trill said, and stepped inside, shutting it.

Clarion and Fifer were standing in opposite corners of the room, as if they had not been listening at the door. Dane was sitting in a stupor on the bed.

“I’m...sorry you all had to hear that,” Trill said. She was a little out of breath, but stood tall, favoring her bad leg.

“We didn’t hear anything,” Clarion said helpfully.

Trill chuckled. “Well, then.” She bent down and offered Dane a waterskin. “Here. Drink.”

Dane accepted it and brought it to his mouth, taking in the lukewarm water in greedy gulps. He emptied half of it, then wiped his mouth, shoving it away.

Trill pushed it back toward him. “Ah, ah. Finish it.” She went to Fifer. “Fifer, darling, are you alright?”

“Yes,” Fifer said. “Am now.”

Taking her face in her hands, Trill dried her tears. “Don’t worry about reporting to Mentor tonight. I’m back in action now. You just go on to bed.”

Fifer looked at Dane uncertainly. “Okay,” she said.

“Clarion, sweetie,” Trill said, rubbing his arm as Fifer left. “Thank you for looking out for us. I’m going to stay with Dane awhile, so you don’t need to wait up for him.”

Clarion nodded and headed out the door.

“To bed, please,” added Trill. “Don’t go looking for Konon.”

“Fine,” sighed Clarion, and he was gone.

Dane felt as if his emotions were pins and needles, returning to his body after a long sleep. With them came memories - his blade severing Viggo’s spine, etching a red grin across Salara’s throat. He had drunk deep from them that night; there had been no choice. They had wounded him too badly. The truest friends he had ever known, and he’d slaughtered them like cattle. 

“Dane,” Trill said gently. “You can sleep here tonight. I’m going to be right outside, but I’ll keep the door closed.” She waited. “Are you going to sleep if I leave you?”

“Yes,” Dane heard himself say.

“Good.” She stood up straight and limped through the door, giving him a warm look before she shut it softly.

The bed smelled overwhelmingly of her. Dane breathed it in and shuddered.

He slept on the floor.


	8. The Magician (Upright)

Going from mostly-open silk shirts to a tight-fitting, conservatively buttoned doublet was a process Dane made with reluctance.

“It’s not in the fashion to show that much skin,” Trill said. “Not for men, anyway. And besides, the more disheveled you look, the more you’ll stand out.”

Dane pursed his lips. “It’s _ strategic _ dishevelment. It’s _ distressed. Sexy. _”

Trill shook her head, smiling. “You’ll look just as good in what I picked out for you. We’re not going to kill the Lady Bhaerynden with tasteful nudity, anyhow.”

Fifer came around the corner. “How do I look?” She had put her hair in thick box braids and wore a knee-length black dress with a poofy skirt. Shimmering purple accents added a dash of jewel-tone color. It left her shoulders exposed, but the sleeves were long and flared, perfect to hide a knife in. Dane saw that her usual dark makeup had a tint of purple as well. Her only rebellion was her great clomping boots, which had been paired with knee socks, also in purple.

“Stunning,” he said honestly. Trill agreed with a hum of satisfaction as she forced shut the final clasp on his doublet.

“The other dress showed a bit more boob, but it didn’t fit my mood,” Fifer said. “Looks like you’ve got us covered there, anyway, Trill.”

“We all have our part to play,” Trill laughed. Her hair was pinned in a messy up-do, more romantic than the no-nonsense bun she normally wore. A few curls framed her face, where she’d dusted her eyelids with gold that stood out stark against her sharply-winged kohl. Her lips were a neutral matte black.

And the _ dress. _ It was flowy, fabric bunched and tucked over itself so that there appeared to be more than there actually was. It was a deep, dark teal, drawing back with a slit up her leg and falling off one shoulder to expose a swathe of her chest. It clung to her like armor where it began and ended, but in between it was loose - secure, but easy to move in. A belt of dark metal filigreed disks cinched it about her waist, matching the thin choker that adorned her neck.

Needless to say, Dane was a lucky bastard to be escorting them. Even if he personally would have liked to be showing more boob himself.

His doublet and hose were nothing ostentatious; Trill had chosen black velvet to highlight his pale skin, how one might dress an especially light gray or albino drow. It had a high collar, snug sleeves, and silver buttons, with a swirling pattern contrasting the grain of the velvet, only perceptible when it caught the light. It was common for those of his station to dress more subdued, not wanting to take attention off the eye-catching aposematism of their peers. 

Clarion had drawn the short straw and did not get to play dress-up. Instead, he had gone ahead to infiltrate the ranks of their target’s servants. There, he could gather information about the upcoming gala’s proceedings, move unnoticed, and if need be, poison food and drink.

Said target was a noblewoman rising to prominence in Princess Naurkuroi’s cabinet, Drusilia Bhaerynden. She was from a minor family on the verge of being assimilated into Naurkuroi, but had nonetheless made a name for herself in merchant dealership. Bhaerynden kept a stranglehold on the city’s imports and was responsible for lowlifes such as the late merchant Du Crasse. Liberating the market would provide the Barbaroi with certain opportunities, and that began with killing Drusilia Bhaerynden.

Which meant gate-crashing the party she was throwing to celebrate her latest trade agreement.

“Alright, let’s go,” Trill said, putting in the latter of her earrings. They were teardrop-shaped and matched the shade of her dress. “The carriage is waiting.”

After killing Du Crasse, and the incident with Konon, Trill had relocated the group to the city’s southern spire, where a smaller Barbaroi outpost held a network of safe houses. One such was their cell’s new home. Their missions now, like this one, would address strengthening the Sisterhood’s position in this part of the city.

A Strider-drawn carriage did indeed wait outside, since walking to the function would put them under more suspicion. The beast was unlike anything Dane had encountered in Barovia, a leathery, long-necked, beaked _ thing, _like a wingless chicken. He eyed it warily as he helped Trill and Fifer into the carriage and tipped the driver. They hadn’t splurged on a footman, since they would likely need to bribe Lady Bhaerynden’s guards.

The carriage ride was near-silent, with Trill gazing critically into her hand-mirror and Fifer watching out the window for any tails. 

Dane tried to remember the last time he’d been on his way to something like this. Well, that was a ‘never’ to carriage rides; all the social functions he’d been to were hosted in Castle Ravenloft itself. But he’d had the experience, the tutors, the training, which was fortunate now, because it was part of their cover that he know how to dance. 

Kowtowing as his father showed him off to Darklords and petty tyrants alike was a regrettable source for the skills he now found convenient. At least he hadn’t put up with such humiliation from a young age. No, it wasn’t until his mother died that Strahd showed _ any _ interest in him at all. Perhaps because he had realized Dane was determined not to disappear or die, that he _ couldn’t, _ not in the way Yelena had.

Still, Dane had been blind then. Blind to his father’s mistrust, blind to the fact that he was a novelty, an odd little thing with the frailty of a mortal and the supple strength of a vampire balled into one. He hadn’t seen the side-eyes and carefully hidden sneers of distinguished guests, the whispers of “_filthy_ _hafu” _and “_waste of good genes”_. To them, he was both pathetic and intimidating - their disgust and fear dangerous in equal measure.

In a way, he was as much a beast to his own people as he was to Konon.

Fifer nudged him, pushing her boot into his shin. Dane looked up, but she still stared out the window. 

That was right. He’d never been so beautifully accompanied to a ball before. It did bring a smile to his face, knowing he could trust the two women in the carriage with him - and Clarion as well.

Not to mention he’d be the envy of the gala, keeping a low profile be damned.

“Take these,” Trill said suddenly, and she handed Dane and Fifer each a face mask. Dane’s was a simple black, while Fifer’s bore variegated purple feathers. Trill had donned her own, trimmed in glittering sea-green stones.

“Oh, right,” Dane said. “It’s a masquerade.”

Fifer gave him a dubious look. “You _ forgot? _”

He strapped on his mask. “I was a little upset about the doublet, alright?”

Trill smiled. The dark mask covering her nose and eyes made the bone-white pearls of her teeth seem bright. “Come now, we Sisters must have masks, one way or another. I’d never bring you two here if it wasn’t a masquerade.”

The carriage pulled to a stop. As they disembarked, Dane took in the imposing outline of the Bhaerynden manor - placed strategically in an open-air clearing in the spire, with a towering roof and sharp, swooping eaves. It was an indulgent, arrogant sprawl of a building - not unlike Castle Ravenloft, but smaller, less spartan.

Trill disembarked and approached the gate guards with a friendly air - and even friendlier coins. 

Dane and Fifer shared a look. “It’s comforting to know we can always count on the establishment to be corrupt when it’s convenient,” he said lightly.

“I’m just happy we won’t have to climb over the wall,” she said. “Come on.”

They joined Trill and walked up the lawn, past displays of mushrooms, low-light flowers, and garishly sculpted fountains. The entryway bore wide, tall doors, dwarf-made, which hung open to admit the guests. Light poured out from the foyer, where a grim, dour majordomo gave them a stiff nod and led them down the main corridor.

Music drifted through the house, growing louder as they reached their destination - a large ballroom, with massive windows along the far wall that showed the lower levels of the spire below. Glittering chandeliers and tiered dishes laden with sweetmeats sprang from opposing surfaces, forming stalagmites and stalactites all their own.

The majordomo melted back into the entrance hall as they crossed the threshold. Guests were milling about, a healthy murmur already filling the room. It looked like no dancing had yet begun.

“Why doesn’t the butler announce us?” Dane sent a glance at the majordomo’s disappearing back.

“Anonymity,” Trill said, “Is what makes a masquerade so exciting. No point in announcing when that would reveal who’s behind the mask.”

The three of them stepped out onto the ballroom floor, Dane half a step behind. He would be playing the role of not just Trill’s subordinate today, but Fifer’s as well. It wasn’t difficult to spot others like himself in the crowd; consorts, guard captains, and lesser sons, all of whom were deferential in both fashion and body language.

A trio in the center of the room caught his eye. In the center was a tall woman with high cheekbones, wearing a delicate, winged mask of platinum. Her dress was black, with a high, flared collar that framed her neck and head with feathers like a peacock’s tail. It had a long train that carried behind her on the floor. Evidently she did not plan to dance. She was flanked by not one but two men, one in a tight-fitting, jeweled cote, the other in a doublet not unlike Dane's, who was armed.

Trill noticed who he was looking at. “There’s our hostess,” she said. “Consort and guard captain not far behind.”

“Quite the escort for this party.” Fifer said. “They’re all three a serious threat.”

“Which is why we can’t engage them directly.” Trill clicked a heel on the floor behind her thoughtfully. “Fan out. Mingle a little, then we’ll reconvene and I’ll make some excuse to greet them. Dane, try and find Clarion, let him know plan B is a go.”

Dane nodded. “Do you want the Pale Tincture or the Midnight Tears?”

Trill touched her chin. “Oh, Midnight Tears, I think. That way we’ll have a nice delay so we can make ourselves scarce before she’s dead.”

“Right.” Dane broke off from the two of them and cast his eyes about, searching for the servants attending the room.

They weren’t easy to spot, but...here was one surfing the crowd with refreshments, here was another waiting on seated guests, here was a third going to and from the kitchens. It was that one - the one with the servants’ exit - that Dane decided to pursue.

He went on the perimeter of the room, smoothly avoiding any interactions, until he reached the door. Unsure if he could get away with leaving through it, he decided loitering there would be his best option.

Fifer and Trill were making their way through different parts of the room, breezing past merchants and dignitaries with the usual platitudes. Each group subtly brought them closer to cornering Lady Bhaerynden. Dane made note of the special reverence many paid Trill, several other guests stooping to kiss the back of her habitually proffered hand. 

Knowing how handsy the Sisters got amongst themselves (indeed, he’d experienced _ that _ culture shock for the past months himself) it was silly, but he felt a protective wedge settle in his gut all the same. He turned away, willing himself to focus, and accidentally made eye contact with another guest, a young woman in a blood-red satin dress seated on the other side of the door. She first raised an eyebrow at his apparent insolence, but then grinned, blowing him a kiss. 

Dane felt an all-too-easy heat come to his cheeks and looked at his shoes. What was taking Clarion so long?

Soon enough, the door opened and Clarion emerged, taking Dane’s arm and leading him a short distance away. “You could be less obvious,” he said in his ear. “I’ve had three of the serving maids complain of a ‘shifty-eyed consort’ lurking out here.”

“Shifty?” Dane’s nose wrinkled. “Because they’re red? Bigots.”

“I’d imagine it’s because of the way you were glaring at Duke Grayfire,” Clarion said dryly. “Or ogling Princess Yekaterina just now. Careful, you know; both their cities are Naurkuroi allies. If you kill or fuck one of their royals, it’d cause quite an uproar.”

Dane elbowed him. “If you could see all _ that, _ why didn’t you come out sooner?”

“I was busy,” Clarion said. “The sous chef almost spiked the wine with our stash of Pale Tincture. I had to flush it down the drain to keep it out of his hands.”

“That’s a relief,” said Dane. “Trill wants Midnight Tears, anyway. Says Bhaerynden’s got too tight of an escort to do any sneaky blade work.”

Clarion followed his gaze to rest on Lady Bhaerynden, her consort, and the guard captain, who was scanning the room warily. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“Sure she’s not just being overly cautious?” Dane fiddled with the end of his sleeve. “They’re not exactly werewolves. That I know of.”

“Thing is,” Clarion said. “Down here, authority equals power. Bhaerynden herself would make for a tough fight, even if she’s not a Matron Mother. The guard captain’s bound to be well trained; they always are, and the consort? He’s more than a trophy. Strength is what you look for in a mate in this world.”

Dane’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed.” He knew the maxim all too well. Strahd had always said his mother was weak, and that was why she was never turned. Why he allowed her to die, while Dane would linger on without her. Cursed with immortality by his father’s putrid, _ strong _blood.

“Tell Trill I’m on it,” Clarion said, and then he vanished back through the servants’ door.

With a sigh, Dane cleared his thoughts. He was thinking of his father far too much today. Normally, he preferred not to waste time on such things. 

He caught Trill and Fifer’s eyes and cut along the mass of guests, just as the musicians struck up a more active piece for the first dance. It was little more than a courtesy than anything for potentially hungry guests, but a good way to reconvene and exchange information without being noticed.

Lady Bhaerynden and her guard captain abstained, although her consort took to the floor with another courtesan. Dane swerved as far away from them as possible, drawing level with Trill. Fifer, he noticed, had sat down.

“Fifer’s not big on this sort of dancing,” Trill said by way of explanation. “Shall we?”

Dane took one of her hands and placed his other on her waist. The other guests were pairing up and getting into position around them, and the cloak of numbers made it feel oddly private. Trill, rather than place her free hand on his shoulder, curled it around his back instead, drawing him close.

She must have felt him stiffen, because as they began the steps they’d rehearsed, moving in time with the horde of nobles, she rubbed it in small circles and murmured, “Are you alright?”

“Never better,” he said, as he swept her around. It was the basic, looping pattern every high-society child was taught from a young age, but with one key difference, as evidenced by the subtle push of Trill’s hand - he was supposed to let her lead.

Dane twisted away from her embrace, as her signal requested, and then Trill followed him, rather than letting him return as was conventional. One of the dancers beside them chuckled; probably an experienced one, if they’d caught the joke that was just for Dane.

“Are you sure?” she asked, wry smile still on her lips, but eyes showing veiled concern. “You’ve been out of it since the carriage ride.”

“It’s nothing, just unpleasant memories,” said Dane, as they twirled around the ballroom. He let her lead him smoothly through the song, resolutely facing her, as was the custom, but keeping one eye on Lady Bhaerynden’s consort lest they draw too close to unfriendly ears. “I think I’m hitting my stride now.”

Trill’s fingernail prodded his spine. “Oh, really? Then why’d you freeze up the moment I put my hands on you?”

“Ah. You’ve caught me.” Dane smiled apologetically. “It’s been a while since I danced. And I’ve never been...held like this.”

Trill blinked, long lashes framing her eyes in gold. “Like what?”

_ Like a lover, _ Dane thought, but he knew she didn’t see it as such. Barovia was much more conservative than the Underdark, and much of the Underdark was more conservative than the Barbaroi. “Like you’re not getting ready to dodge my fangs, or a knife, or a poisoned needle. Honestly, I thought I’d seen even more of that down here.”

With a laugh, Trill changed directions and spun them around. “Well, you might if you watch the other guests. To us, though, what’s a dance between friends?”

“What is it indeed?” Dane relaxed a little. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of dancing with a friend before.”

Trill winked. “I don’t think anyone else here has either.” Then she turned serious. “Clarion get the message?”

“He’s on it,” Dane said. With a final flourish, the song came to a close. Applause echoed through the ballroom as the guests parted and began seeking food and drink.

“Good,” Trill said, letting go of him. “Now we just need to get that drink in her hand. Fifer will take care of the handoff. You come with me.”

Slipping an arm through his, she led him across the room toward Lady Bhaerynden, sidestepping the clumps of guests that lay between them. On the way, they swiped drinks from a waiter, to better blend in.

As they passed the table where Fifer was sitting, she rose and came to them, grabbing Trill’s elbow urgently. “Five o’clock,” she hissed.

Trill and Dane turned. Entering fashionably late were two new guests, a slim woman in glittering black robes and, to Dane’s surprise, another human. The man was bearded, scarred, and wore his doublet uneasily. He had no mask. The woman had a jet-black, full-face mask with an impassive expression.

“A priestess,” Trill said somewhat ruefully. “Of course. Naurkuroi couldn’t be here, but she made sure the church came in her stead.”

As she spoke, Dane caught a whiff of _ dog _ and nearly gagged. “That man,” he said. “He’s a wolf. He’ll sniff me out if we’re not careful.”

“Right,” Trill said. “We distract Bhaerynden, then we go. Fifer, you have the cup.”

“Got it,” Fifer said, and made a beeline for the servants’ door.

Dane tried to keep watching the priestess and her werewolf without being too obvious, and he didn’t like what he saw. “They’re following us,” he said in a low voice. “Or at least, coming this way.”

“Probably to make their greetings to the hostess,” Trill said. “We’ve come too far now to break off.”

A deceptively soft voice came from behind them. “I’m quite pleased we only missed the first dance. It’s a fine celebration. Only just for such an important victory, no?” _ Victory. _As if Lady Bhaerynden had won some great conquest rather than shaking enough hands to embezzle and extort even further.

Trill, realizing it was directed at her, reluctantly turned around. This brought her and Dane face to face with the expressionless mask and the weathered mug of the werewolf.

“I must apologize for my companion’s lack of proper attire,” the priestess continued. “We found that a mask interferes with his innate sense of smell to an intolerable degree, and I do so value his unique skills, don’t I, Wycliffe?” Her companion made no response.

“Surely that’s understandable,” Trill said, with a curtsy. “Favored One.”

The priestess held out her hand toward Dane expectantly, still looking at Trill. With a glance at the man called Wycliffe, he bent forward and took her hand gingerly, kissing the air above her knuckles. Her hand was unnaturally smooth, like marble, and her nails were long and manicured.

To his surprise, she laughed. “You call that a kiss?” Leaving her hand where it was, she gripped his a little. “Come now, greet a lady properly.”

Dane looked at Trill, who nodded pointedly. He pressed his lips to the priestess’s hand in earnest, putting a little heat into it for his trouble, and withdrew as she relinquished her grip. “My apologies, Mistress. Where I’m from, it is improper for your lips to touch a lady’s hand. Doubly so for a woman of the cloth.”

“Is that so?” She cocked her head in Trill’s direction. “Fascinating little thing. And from where does he hail?”

Trill slid her arm around Dane’s waist, both as a social cue of possession and to squeeze his hip in warning. _ Be. Careful. _ “Well? Give the priestess your answer.”

“Barovia,” Dane said. “Far from here.”

“The Shadowfell? Interesting.” The priestess was about to say something more when Wycliffe went rigid, his nostrils flaring. “Oh, what _ is _it, Wycliffe? Must you interrupt me?”

“That _ stench _,” he said in a rough voice. “I’ve smelled it before.”

Shit. Dane gritted his teeth. His pheromones. _ Shit _ . Maybe he’d put too _ much _heat into his spiteful greeting kiss, or maybe being so close to Trill all this time had brought them out of him. Whatever the case, his control was hardly perfect, and it was just the extra whiff Wycliffe needed to get truly suspicious.

“Whatever could you mean?” The priestess said tiredly.

“The alleyway,” Wycliffe said, becoming more agitated. “Your girl at the cathedral came back from it all glassy-eyed on the main spire. Smell was all over the place. This is the same one.”

With that, the priestess straightened. “Well, then. You know what to do. Hunt it _ out. _”

Wycliffe growled low in his throat. “I intend to.”

Trill swayed suddenly and put her weight on Dane, then poured her cup down the front of his doublet. “Oh!” 

The smell of the wine rose, fruity and pungent. Wycliffe curled his lip.

Dane flinched from the shock as his front became instantly wet, and Trill patted him down, shaking her head. “Can’t believe I’ve had too much already. This Frigost wine really is strong stuff.” She laughed in the priestess’s direction and then turned to Dane sharply. “Get yourself cleaned up. I need to sit down.”

Dane inclined his head and turned around, feeling Wycliffe’s eyes on his back. He weaved through the crowd, trying to obscure himself with the throng, and found Fifer’s table, now empty. Seizing a cloth napkin, he unbraced his doublet and began dabbing at the fine silk shirt underneath. 

_ Now _he was showing boob.

Fifer ran up to him, breathless. “Got it, we got it. We got her.”

Dane whirled on her in surprise. “How?”

“She was distracted when someone lost control of their glass,” Fifer said, with a lopsided grin. “It was only a split second, but no one was looking. Come midnight, this party’s breaking up early.”

“Good,” said Dane. “We need to get out of here. That werewolf-”

“I thought I told you to get cleaned up?” Trill said playfully, appearing next to them. 

“What does it look like I’m doing, _ mistress? _” Dane shook out the napkin and discarded it. “It’s done. Is that Wycliffe still watching me?” 

“No, they’re talking to Bhaerynden now.” said Trill. “Where’s Clarion?”

“Already out the back way, and he got our carriage from the driver,” said Fifer.

“How long till midnight?” asked Dane.

Trill looked up, searching the walls for a clock. “Three minutes. Alright, we’re out of here.”

Taking care that as little attention was on them as possible, the three of them made their way to the door and out into the entrance hall, past the majordomo, who offered no questions. Clarion was outside with the carriage, as Fifer had said, and he took the reins in hand as they boarded. 

“Ready to go?” he asked.

Trill closed the door behind her while Dane and Fifer took their seats. “Let’s make tracks.”

The ride back was tense. Clarion took a different route, hugging side streets and staying off the promenade as much as possible. His caution was proven wise when, just after the stroke of midnight, a howl went up around the spire.

The Lady Bhaerynden was dead, and now the wolves would be on the hunt.

“We’re way ahead of them,” Trill said. “We’ll ditch the carriage and head back to the safe house on foot.”

They did just that, abandoning the carriage on the side of the road in front of a merchant’s town house. Their safe house was easily accessible by a path no guards would spy them on, a useful insurance left behind by the Barbaroi cell that had formerly held residence there.

However, only when the door closed behind them did it feel safe enough to speak.

“You know, Trill,” Dane said. “That doublet was just starting to grow on me.”


	9. The Moon (Upright)

Dane was adrift in a sea of black. 

The darkness did not suggest any source of light. Instead, it cradled him, viscous and gauzy, yet strangely solid. 

He could see nothing except for two pale thighs astride his hips. They were grey, strong but soft-looking, and as his vision came into focus there seemed to be more light and he realized their owner was facing away from him, undulating pleasantly on his lap.

Dane tried to sit up, but something told him he couldn’t, or didn’t want to. Instead, the darkness melted away to reveal more: the arch of a lithe, taut back, with a wild mane of shining white hair cascading down its length. Two slim, gently muscular arms, held at her sides but out on a slight angle, as if she -  _ she  _ \- were bracing her fists on thin air.

Seeking where he and this person were connected, Dane craned his neck and saw only the curve of her shapely rear before his attention was drawn away by a soft sound. He looked up and saw the pointed ears, just visible from the back despite the wild mess of hair, and though he could not see her face, the woman’s voice sounded familiar.

It was then that he truly realized this was a dream.

Another glance at the woman riding him - who had yet to look over her shoulder - and Dane thought that she might be Trill, if he never saw her face to deny it. He felt a little guilty for the thought, but if it was a dream, was there really any harm in enjoying it?

He felt a shift in time and space and suddenly he was bent over, probably kneeling, with the same woman below him. Her back was smooth and soft, and he felt himself running his hands up to her waist and back again. Every now and then, he caught an elusive noise of appreciation, but the experience all felt slightly off, as sex usually did in dreams.

The two of them fell to the mattress together and she twisted on her waist to gasp and kiss his mouth. He wanted to break the kiss and see her face, but he could not. In the dream, they both reached their peak, she crying out in pleasure, but thankfully Dane was not rudely awakened by his corporeal body following suit. 

Lying in the same bed with the woman who may or may not have been Trill, he was overcome with a strange sense of peace, and also that they were not alone. Since they were both sweating, they moved apart to cool down, and Dane happened to turn over and face the other side of the bed.

He found a third person laying there, just as familiar and with no plausible deniability. She, too, was naked, and the sheets were pulled up tightly over the pink skin of her chest.

Konon smiled, sweaty and rumpled just like him, and the smile might have been kind, but the words she whispered were not.

“You filth.”

Dane bolted upright in the real world, grasping at his heart with his left hand and scrabbling for his sword with the other. He missed, and the weapon clattered off the nightstand and onto the floor. 

In the silence afterward, which seemed somehow lonelier and more oppressive after the sharp sound, he looked around the room. It was after glowdawn, but not long. He looked down at his lap and palmed himself, still half-hard, and confirmed that he hadn’t ruined his smallclothes.

Finding himself clean and dry, aside from the cold sweat he’d awoken to, he let out a strained sigh of relief and let his head droop, face in his hands. What was  _ wrong  _ with him? He’d been doing everything right.

He looked down at himself, the tent in his pants, and dubiously considered polishing the old crucifix before heading out to meet the day. Otherwise, he feared, he wouldn’t be able to get the stupid dream off his mind. 

Before he could commit to taking himself in hand, though, a knock came at his door, startling him again. 

“Dane?” Trill’s voice was muffled. “I heard something fall. Say you’re alive or I’m coming in.”

His mouth suddenly dry, Dane struggled to speak. “I’m alive. My sword...I knocked it loose.”

There was a pause. “Alright. Well, come out if you want breakfast.” Her feet padded away from the door.

It had  _ definitely  _ been her in the dream. Dane felt his face grow red. Somehow, it was almost more humiliating that she  _ didn’t  _ know the state she’d caught him in.

He got up hastily, dressing and stopping at the basin he’d been provided to splash cold water on his face. Smoothing his hair down with the remaining dampness, he trudged out the door and into the common area of the safe house.

Trill appeared to be the only other person awake. Clarion and Fifer were nowhere to be seen, and their doors were closed. For her part, Trill had food on the table, and was sitting there reading something. She acknowledged him tiredly as he sat down.

“Word from Mentor,” she said, as if that was all the explanation needed, and put the papers down. “Go on. Eat.”

Dane accepted the plate she offered him, but checked for all the known signs of poison first, as well as magically. He did so pointedly, so that she could see him doing it. When he was satisfied, he began to eat.

“Good,” she said, but only watched him. It seemed she had already eaten. That, or he’d missed something, and was about to learn some kind of lesson. Trill didn’t lace his food and drink regularly, but she hadn’t been above asking others to do it in the past.

Finishing without incident, Dane looked up out of the corner of his eye to find Trill still staring at him. As soon as he set down his fork, she scooped up his plate and put it somewhere out of sight, putting down a checkered game board between them. He counted twenty-one pieces and recognized Tak, a tavern game they’d played together before. It was similar to chess or gō; the objective was to create a path to the other end of the board while obstructing your opponent.

“Play me?” Trill said, but it wasn’t exactly a request. “I have a bet.”

Dane shrugged, fingering a piece on his side of the board. “What’s the bet?”

Trill looked him in the eyes and smirked. “Your life.”

A leathery claw grabbed the inside of Dane’s belly. He held Trill’s gaze, searching. Was this a joke? Or was it something more sinister? Maybe his dream had been a warning, and Konon had finally succeeded in convincing Mentor to put him down. Perhaps those were the very orders Trill had been reading. 

Finally, he spoke. “Is...this an exercise?”

“Of sorts.” Trill made her first move, sending a front-line piece two spaces toward him. “You know by now that this game is about focus and planning ahead. If at any point you aren’t capable of that…” she tilted her head, one eyebrow raised, and grinned a little. “I’ll have to declare you dead.”

“I see.” So it  _ was _ an exercise. Trill liked to wake him up in the wee hours, when his mind was raw, and test him. Dane wondered if whatever news she’d read had shaken her somehow. Despite her smiling face, she seemed to be taking this seriously.

He made a move in response, setting his piece up to cut her off. Trill responded, their tiles clacking against the surface of the board. For a few moves, all was silence.

“So, the priestess last night.” Trill said. “That was close.”

Dane sniffed. “Could have been closer. Thanks, though, spilling the wine really saved my arse.”

“She took an interest. That’s  _ too  _ close.” Setting down another piece, Trill sat back. “We have many powerful women as enemies, Dane. If you think they’ll hesitate to get their claws into you, you’re quite mistaken.”

“Judging by the company she kept, I don’t think I’m really her type,” Dane muttered. Which wasn’t untrue. The priestess had been intrigued by him, yes, but he didn’t sense any underlying threat thereby, at least not in a sense that she desired him. The thought of her expressionless mask and marble-smooth skin sent a chill down his spine. Her hand had been almost uncomfortably cold.

“Still, you should do your best not to attract unwelcome attention,” Trill said. “Little stunts like the one you pulled are going to make the wrong person want you, if you’re not careful.”

Dane set down another piece and looked up. “Little stunts?”

Trill gave him a look. “When you kissed her hand. Charming, sure, but all that spite made it pretty heated as well, and  _ that  _ almost blew our cover, if I recall.”

“I didn’t realize we were blaming me for that,” Dane said, when in fact, he had blamed himself, and simply hoped Trill wasn’t in agreement.

“Not quite finished, so I won’t call it blame. Clarion also told me-”

Dane braced himself. “Blood and  _ darkness _ .”

“-that some of the servers noticed you watching our movements. And that Princess Yekaterina flirted with you.”

“She blew a kiss,” Dane said weakly. “One time.”

Trill picked up a mug and took a sip, eyeing him over the rim. “She asked her father about you.”

Ah. “He have anything to tell her?”

“No. But if she had been interested enough, he might start digging, and that’s nothing compared to what that priestess is capable of if she did the same.” Trill put down her drink. With her free hand, she moved her latest piece within a few spaces of Dane’s side of the board.

Dane moved one of his own pieces to block her. “Alright, what are you getting at?”

“I think it’s time we moved your studies forward in an area we’ve been neglecting,” said Trill. “Your pheromones are nice and all, but they’re unpredictable and they leave the victim a little too pliable in some cases.” She delicately moved another piece. “You’re attractive, you have courtly training and I’m assuming some romantic experience. So, in light of what’s happened recently, I’m thinking we’ll go ahead and move on to the next step of your infiltration training.”

A sinking feeling came into Dane’s gut. “Which is?”

“Seduction,” Trill said matter-of-factly. She moved to set down a piece. “Tak.”

“No you don’t,” Dane said. “It’s not your turn yet!” He reached out to deflect her outstretched hand.

As he did, Trill’s other hand seemed to move in slow motion. Reaching up to fondle her collar, it drew the top of her shirt down until it exposed most of her left breast. It wasn’t much more skin than her dress had shown the night before, but Dane swore he saw a flash of a coal-grey nipple.

He dropped his piece.

Just like that, Trill’s shirt was back in place, her piece was in the winning position and she held two fingers to his throat, poised to crush his windpipe with a single jab. “And you just let me cheat,” she said in a low voice. “You’re dead... _ Dane _ .”

Dane was still frozen. Surely he hadn’t just seen her do that. “What the hells was that supposed to be?”

“ _ That _ was a rational provocation,” Trill sat back. “To ensure you take me seriously. And so that you know what power seduction has - in particular, what power it holds over  _ you. _ ” She pointed at him. 

Heat came to Dane’s cheeks, and frustration along with it. “You didn’t have to flash me to get that across,” he said.

“Oh, but I did.” Trill put a hand on her breast. “You need to understand. This is just flesh, Dane. Sure, it looks good, but it’s nothing special. Babies feed from it. It’s a body part with a function, like any other. So don’t let  _ these _ -” she motioned to her bust, then reached across the table and poked him in the forehead. “-control  _ this. _ ”

Dane’s mind was racing in multiple, very uncomfortable directions when Clarion came out of the hallway, yawning. Fifer was behind him, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. 

“Uh-oh!” Clarion chuckled as he scraped together some breakfast, not bothering to check if it had been tampered with as Dane had. “Lost again, huh? Better luck next time.”

Fifer ran a critical eye over Trill’s pose, still jabbing a finger into Dane’s forehead. “What am I looking at? Is he misbehaving again?”

“The hells do you mean,  _ again _ ?” Dane demanded, squirming away from Trill’s hand. 

Trill settled in her seat. “Clare, Fifer, glad you could join us. I’ve decided to get Dane started on seduction techniques.”

Fifer laughed. “Is that what you were doing? You’re poking the wrong end, Trill. You’re supposed to be the teacher!”

Clarion blinked. “Wow, okay. Who with?’

“That’s up to Dane.” Trill looked at him. “You will need a partner, you know.”

Dane’s gut sunk even further. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“We’re not,” said Fifer helpfully.

“It’s a bit of a potentially awkward process,” Trill said. “So we try to practice in a way that leaves everything up to you. Obviously we’re not asking you to be intimate with anyone, but in order to master the proper technique, you’ll have to come close.”

“Like playing a love scene in the opera,” Clarion added.

Trill nodded. “Sort of. Maybe less physical than even that. But we don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

_ Too late,  _ Dane thought. 

“Since we’re isolated here and we need to lay low for a couple days, I’m afraid your options for partners are limited,” said Trill apologetically. “But frankly, I think we’d all rather you train with someone familiar to you. That leaves me, or Clarion.”

Dane stirred. “What about Fifer?”

“I’m out,” Fifer said. “No offense.”

“Fifer isn’t interested in men,” Trill explained. “She wouldn’t be an effective partner.”

Dane could relate. He wasn’t interested in men, either. At least, he hadn’t been all his life. But in this moment, for one reason in particular, he dearly wished he was. Clarion was a good-looking elf, but he didn’t hold a candle to Trill if you were looking with Dane’s eyes, and that was the problem. 

And then there was the dream, and every small hint of his crush leading up to it - like the time he’d held her leg while Bax dug the crossbow bolt out - seeming to converge on this moment. Soon he wouldn’t be able to ignore or deny his attraction to Trill, something she doubtless already suspected, given how she’d won their game of Tak.

If that was the case, how did this situation make her feel? Was she hoping he’d choose Clarion? Was she reluctant, or was her professional detachment just so perfect that she felt nothing? Did she look down on him, like Konon would, or did she maybe pity him? He didn’t know what would be worse. It was bad enough not knowing where he stood now. If he  _ really  _ gave himself away-

“Dane!” Clarion snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Thought we lost you there.”

Dane blinked. Trill and Fifer were looking at him expectantly. They actually did want him to choose, he realized. He glanced at Clarion, then at Trill.

There was only one honest answer.

“I need to think,” he said bluntly, and stood up, knocking over the game board. His chair skidded back on the floor.

“Dane?” Trill started to get up. “Wait.” 

But he was already out the door. He shut it behind him and, as if tranced, walked down the single flight of stairs that suspended their apartment above a third-level alchemist’s shop. He passed through the outer door and into the cool, moist air of the spire. 

He’d been planning on just going wherever his feet took him, but they didn’t take him far. After walking a few feet from the door, he leaned against the wall and slid all the way down until he sat where the shopfront met the street. There was little or no traffic here this time of day.

Maybe he hadn’t gone somewhere else because he wanted them to follow him. He was a coward.

What Trill said wasn’t untrue. He’d had some tentative romances at home in Barovia. They’d mostly never been physical, with a few exceptions. But he didn’t think he’d been doing it right. The girls at court were alright, maybe you could pass notes and flirt a little, but the only real action you got was with village girls and tavern whores. Hells, he and Salara had even snogged a few times. 

She’d been richly rewarded for that, she had.

Footsteps came down the stairs, through the door and off the stoop. Before Dane knew it, a pair of tell-tale boots was in front of his eyes.

“Go away, Fife,” he said. His voice sounded weaker than he thought it would.

Fifer sat down beside him. She didn’t say anything.

Dane didn’t say anything either.

He waited a moment, but it seemed like she was the only one coming. Neither Trill nor Clarion emerged from the door.

Then Fifer spoke. “I get what you’re scared of.”

Dane looked at her.

She stared straight ahead, into the street, but kept talking. “Killing is easy. You can compartmentalize it, make it all remote and cold. It doesn’t leave anything behind unless you let it. But seduction? It’s intimate. It leaves residue like...like slime. It sticks to you whether you like it or not.” 

Dane said nothing.

Fifer blew out her cheeks. “I know what that’s like. I got a feeling you do too.”

It was a while before she looked at him.

“A few months ago, I murdered the girl who was my first kiss,” Dane said. “I thought she was trying to kill me.”

“Was she?”

“I don’t know.”

Fifer simply waited.  
Dane kept talking. There wasn’t anything left to stop him. “My first time was with this tavern maid in Barovia. It wasn’t two miles from my home. My father had finally let me leave a few days before...I wanted to raise hell with my friends. But that night I was alone.” He scratched at the cobblestones. “I came on to her, and she let me do what I wanted. It wasn’t until...afterward, that I realized she hadn’t done it because she wanted me.”

Fifer watched him carefully. “Was she afraid of you?”

“I don’t think so.” Dane met her eyes. “Maybe once she found out what we’d done, who I was. But I never bit her. It was my pheromones.” He looked away. “ They made her do it. Not my boyish charm, not her own whim. Not her choice. And I fell for them same as her.”

“That hasn’t happened since,” Fifer said. “Right?”

Dane shook his head. “No.”

“Still, I understand.” She extended one leg into the street. “You’ve got it bad for Trill. If sparks started flying during training, I’d worry too if I were you.”

He started. “You would?”

“I said,” Fifer enunciated. “If I were a daft fucking blockhead like you. I’m not. So I’m not going to worry.” She stood up and stretched. “Trill can handle herself. And so can you. You’re not out of control anymore, if you ever really were. She knows what she’s doing.”

“Do you think she knows about…?” Dane didn’t move to get up.

“I can give you a soft maybe,” Fifer said. “She knows you check her out, but honestly who doesn’t? What I think is more telling is that Konon’s so jealous of you.”

Dane’s head whipped around. “Konon is  _ what _ ?”

Fifer laughed. “You really are thick.” She squatted in front of him to meet his eyes again. “Look, Clarion knows someone. A wine trader who’s in town, trying to make enough coin to open a tavern. She’s a friend of the Sisterhood. Experienced. If you ask him, I’m sure he can set you up with her, get her to show you the ropes for...things you’d rather not do with Trill.” She seemed to think a moment. “Well, as long as she’s a  _ she _ at the right time. You’ll need to keep a flexible schedule.”

“Come again?” 

“Most elves have limited shapechanging,” Fifer explained. “Comes from Corellon, and we drow can still do it, even though our relationship with Him is a bit...complicated. Anyway, it helps when your gender’s on the fluid side.” 

“Ah. Yes, I imagine it would.” Dane thought this information over. 

“Just saying, it’d be a hundred percent consensual,” Fifer added. “And without any, you know, baggage. You’ll probably never see her again, and if I know her, she’ll be fine with that, too.”

Dane raised an eyebrow. “Just how well do you know her?”

Fifer stood. “A lady never tells.” She dusted off her pants. “Right. I’m going back in. Yell for us if you’re dead.”

“Sure thing,” Dane said as she went back in through the door.

Now he was alone. The dream-Konon’s words rang in his head.

_ You filth. _


	10. The Tower (Reversed)

After a while, Dane got up and stretched his stiffened legs. It was time for a change of scenery, but he didn’t want to rejoin the others just yet. For all Clarion and Trill knew, he’d stormed out after spooking at being asked to choose between them. That was assuming Fifer hadn’t told them what he’d told her - and he thought she wouldn’t; despite her and Clare tattling frequently, he felt he had her confidence this time.

Anyway, it was pretty damn embarrassing, and he needed to think over the new option Fifer had presented. Getting in touch with a specific outside contact to...what? To handle the curriculum Trill would have put him through? That would require Trill’s knowledge and cooperation. Sure, he didn’t want to eagerly partner up with her, but he didn’t want to insult her, either.

If this wine trader was able to somehow help with the more risky maneuvers involved in applied seduction, then that way, Dane could still learn them without jeopardizing his relationship with Trill. That being said, he wasn’t sure how to dissuade Trill from teaching him the physical aspects. 

His feet took him to a tavern called The Skeleton Key, where a ragtag trio of musicians were entertaining a small noontime crowd. It had multiple levels, a balcony rising above the dining area, and a large dragon’s head, which was probably fake, hung over the stacks of kegs behind the bar. 

The barkeep was a male drow with a short bowl cut and a moustache. He was cleaning a cup with a cloth, as barkeeps are wont to do, and his vest and bowtie were wine-red. Dane did not acknowledge him. He didn’t intend to drink; instead, he went to the back of the seating area and plopped himself down, facing the rest of the tavern.

The patrons were about as diverse as it got in Dhikanye. Two barmaids, one an amethyst tiefling, the other a human girl with red ringlets, were serving the floor. Two duergar were arguing with a drow and a surface elf in the other corner. A quintet of goblins had an entire table to themselves. A few lone drinkers had their hoods up so Dane could not see their faces.

One table closer to the center of the floor was particularly unusual. There was another surface elf, blond and pretty, wearing thigh-high boots and carrying a lute. Next to her was a ranger in a green cloak with a porkpie hat to match. To their right was a human woman with shorter hair and gleaming armor, and rounding out the table was a she-orc, tall and muscular, with intricate beads braided into her long black hair.

Most fortunately, there were no off-duty guards in this tavern, at least as far as Dane could see and smell. 

Seeing so many surface-worlders distracted him for a while, but soon his thoughts returned to the issue at hand. What seemed to make the most sense was to ensure Trill’s safety and his own mental integrity by handling the more intimate areas of seduction differently. Clarion had compared them to playing a love scene in an opera, but Dane knew that even theatre could get pretty heated. He would prefer not to chance anything more than a kiss with Trill, and he felt a rush of anxiety at the prospect of even kissing her.

Hells, at the prospect of kissing  _ anyone. _

How in the world could he want something so badly and yet be so afraid of it? It didn’t make sense. 

The one upside to Trill handling this was that she knew him better than most, and the idea of exposing himself to an entirely new person, with the goal of even  _ faking _ being intimate, was...distressing.

And what was to happen if he lost control? Blood was not an issue, as long as he kept himself well-fed and uninjured. But sex...sex was another of a vampire’s many possible vices, and while Dane hadn’t strictly had enough of it to call it a vice, he knew it was a common one in his family. Not to mention he desperately needed to get laid, if his behavior around  _ Konon  _ of all people was any indication.

Konon wouldn’t actually be that bad of an option, to be honest, if they’d only gotten off on a better foot.  _ Gotten off _ , so to speak. That showed where  _ his  _ mind was now.

Shit.

Dane called over the serving girl with the red hair (she had fantastic breasts that he tried desperately not to stare at) and asked her for an ale. Maybe the act of drinking would help him focus.

She was on her way back from the bar when the door slammed open and a trio of guards walked in. 

Tsk. Not good. If they smelled him (which, in here, was unlikely, but still) the game was up. Dane prepared himself for a speedy and discreet exit. He’d have to find an ale somewhere else.

The guards didn’t seem interested in sniffing about, though. Instead, they marched up to the barkeep and started questioning him. Dane couldn’t hear what about, but some of the patrons sitting closer - including the large table of adventurer types - started to turn their heads. The lead guard grabbed the barkeep by his lapels and dragged him towards her, snarling in his face.

The musicians stopped.

“Tell me where you got that wine!” she growled. “And don’t say Du Crasse, because we know full well he’s dead! You got it from Tassarion, didn’t you?” With a heave, she pulled him on top of the bar, knocking over cups and mugs. “ _ Didn’t you!?” _

The elf bard stood and sidled over to the guards. “Look, now. He can’t answer you like that, he’s too terrified to speak.” She smiled dazzlingly. “We’re all friends here. Why don’t I have him bring us a round and we can sort this out civil-like.” As she spoke, her fingers traveled up the lady guard’s forearm.

The guard sniffed. “Careful, outsider.” But she was swaying. “I won’t let him out of my sight until I get what I want.”

_ Well, there’s some seduction in action, _ Dane thought humorlessly.

“Sure, sure,” said the bard. “So let’s sit down and try this again. All right?”

For a moment, it looked like things were going to be settled peacefully. But then, as they hemmed and hawed and shuffled uncertainly toward some chairs, the redheaded barmaid stumbled trying to get out of their way. She tripped over something and Dane’s ale went flying, splashing down the front of another guard’s tabard.

“Clumsy bitch!” He struck her across the face and then grabbed her by the hair, holding her in place to hit her again. Her nose was already bleeding.

Dane was already halfway out of his seat when the center table’s chairs slid back. In one movement, the ranger was pulling the bard out of harm’s way, kicking the table over to stand behind it. The armored woman drew her sword and swung a huge overhead cut, slicing clean through the arm of the guard holding the serving girl’s hair.

He roared in pain and the woman, rather than standing her ground, ushered the redheaded girl away, holding out her blade protectively. The other two guards shouted and drew weapons, but the she-orc was on them immediately, breaking a bottle over the head of one, who had his helmet off and under his arm. He dropped to one knee, bleeding from his hairline, but began to rise.

The lead guard swiped at the she-orc with a short sword, but quickly grew frustrated as every attack she made was dodged or deflected. She burst into her hybrid form, howling and wrestling the orc woman to the floor. Her claws tore into gray-green flesh. The ranger threw a knife, but it wasn’t silvered, and even as it buried itself in the werewolf’s shoulder Dane could see it gave her no pause. 

On top of that, the guard who’d been bottled was on his feet. 

Perhaps  _ now  _ was the time to intervene. 

Dane stood, planted a foot on the table, and pushed off, leaping across the tavern. He drew his sword midair and slashed up the length of the werewolf’s back, unleashing a spray of curdled blood. Then, pirouetting to the side, he neatly decapitated the one with the head wound, letting his head fall to the floor. 

The guard who was missing an arm also transformed, leaping toward Dane with frothing jaws. But before he could attack, he was impaled between the ribs by the armored woman, whose sword glowed with a foreign yellow light. He yelped and writhed, giving Dane time to bury his blade down the slavering snout through the back of his throat.

Behind Dane’s feet, the orc had reversed her own werewolf’s hold and was now on top, delivering knee after savage knee into the guard’s abdomen. One particularly nasty strike seemed to knock the wolf right out of her; her transformation failed, leaving her human size and strength no match. The orc picked her up, stood, and slammed her headfirst into the bar, snapping her neck on its edge.

Just like that, it was over. Deadly silence filled the tavern. Someone coughed. The redhead was sobbing as the bard and ranger dabbed at her nose and reassured her in low voices. Wolf blood dripped onto the floor.

With some hesitation, the music resumed.

Dane wiped his sword and sheathed it as the tavern recovered around him. The barkeep was lobbing professions of equal thanks and terror at whoever he could reach, fretting that the guard would come down on his head. The tiefling serving girl had made a run for it, but the two adventurers tending to the human girl had determined her nose wasn’t broken.

The armored woman had similarly cared for her blade and knelt, holding it pommel up in front of her face. “We thank thee, great Pholtus, for this victory. May your laws bind the heathens who forced us to take their lives, and may you light the way for we who survive their passing.”

Dane raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She seemed in her own world.

The orc woman rolled back her shoulders and turned to face him. “Hey, thanks for the help back there.” She extended a large hand. “Got a name I can pin my gratitude on?”

After a beat, Dane shook her hand, which smothered his own. “Dane.”

She raised an eyebrow much as he had. “Got a last name?”

“Just Dane,” he said.

The orc nodded. “Well, Dane Justdane, I’m Kenta Kensif. You just saved my life, and saved my pup from becoming an orphan to boot. I’d sure like to buy you a drink if I can.”

Dane glanced at the dismembered guards. “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I should go.” He shook the last few drops of blood off the hem of his coat. 

“Will you not stay, stranger?” asked the paladin, who had finished with her prayer. “I’ve told the barkeep he can blame us for the disturbance. You won’t be implicated.”

Dane tried to remember what he could about Pholtus. Some good-aligned god who had a significant following on the surface. This woman would probably try to kill him if she found out he was half-vampire, regardless of her companion’s goodwill.

“Once again, thank you,” he said to them both. “But I should leave. Quickly.” He turned to the orc called Kenta. “Your pup. What’s their name?”

“Tuckius,” Kenta said. “For his damn fool of a father. I’m all he’s got left. Lucky you saved my ass.”

Dane nodded. “Don’t count on luck again. For his sake.” Fishing a coin out of his purse, he set it on the bloodstained bar counter and left, not looking back for a response.

He’d walked three blocks, coat pulled close around him, before someone hissed at him from a dark alleyway. 

Normally, what you did in this situation was walk  _ away  _ from the alley in question. But Dane knew that hiss. He sighed and slipped into the shadows, nearly colliding with Clarion.

“I tracked you to the end of the street,” Clarion said. “Then some barmaid came running, bawling that a fight had broken out. Three guards dead. Knew it had to be you.” He grinned. “Feeling better?”

“No,” Dane said. “What did Fifer tell you?”

Clarion’s brow furrowed. “Nothing. I was worried. Trill is too. Only…” He folded his arms. “Fifer did say I might want to reach out to Nueleth. Know anything about that?”

Dane leaned back against the wall. “If this Nueleth is a genderfluid wine trader looking to open her own tavern, then yes, Fifer did mention her.” He kicked at a clod of mushrooms growing out of the cobblestones. “And I might be interested.”

“I get it. Trill can be intimidating.” Clarion unstuck himself from the darkness of the alley and led Dane out into the street. “Well, if you want someone else to ease you into the realm of hanky-panky - and trust me, you need it, judging by the way you reacted to Princess Yekaterina - Nueleth’s sure to oblige you if we make it worth her while.”

Dane shook his head. “I just want to talk to her.”

“She’s a fantastic lay,” Clarion said, as if he hadn’t heard. “Multitalented. Has lots of underworld contacts. Oh, and her eyeliner is spot-on. Her best quality, though?  _ Veeeery _ discreet. Really knows when to keep a secret.”

The road Clarion led them to was one that Dane wasn’t as familiar with. It was busy, full of market stalls, and he even had to sidestep running children. Flotsam like straw and broken pottery was collecting in the gutters. Wagons rolled by laden with goods. It was probably the busiest place on this spire, but it paled in comparison to the city center.

With an abrupt turn, Clarion went down a side street, under a second-floor extension that created an archway, and to a door that was rather difficult to notice. He knocked three times and waited. 

“This isn’t her permanent residence,” he said to Dane. “But I know she’s operating out of here while she’s in town.”

A grate near head height slid open on the door and a pair of green eyes peered out. “Clarion sweetie! Bit busy, what’s the trouble?”

“Hi, Nueleth,” Clarion said. “Is today a good day?”

“Maybe not for you,” Nueleth replied wryly. 

Clarion chuckled. “I’m not asking for me.” He moved out of the way so she could see Dane standing behind him.

“...Interesting,” Nueleth said. “All right, come in, you two. Get out of sight and we’ll see what we’re dealing with.” Three bolts slid back and then the door itself unlocked, swinging open for Clarion to enter. Dane hesitated, then followed him in.

The room was lit by a few candles, giving it a warm glow that was just above dim. It had a table and a few chairs, as well as a miniature bar and a shelf of spirits. A narrow, steep staircase led to another floor. The furnishings seemed pre-included, but the alcohol was clearly Nueleth’s, and the rug, which was intricate and looked foreign, probably was too.

Nueleth stood by the bar as they came in. She was tall, with lightish grey skin and long white hair, some of which was in a thick braid. She wore tight leggings and a sleeveless top, which seemed to show tattoos of some kind disappearing underneath. Her features at first glance seemed androgynous, but the longer Dane beheld her, the more female she seemed to him. Her choices were subtle, but he was confident she was presenting as a woman today. Was that what Clarion had meant?

Her small but noticeable breasts and toned buttocks were especially telling.

Nueleth caught his appraisal and did a slow turn, laughter in her pale green eyes. “Did I do a good job, then? I was kind of feeling myself today.”

Dane tensed. “Sorry,” he began. “I don’t mean to stare, I’ve just - heard a bit about you.”

She winked. “Oh, I’ve heard a bit about you, too.”

Clarion had already taken a seat. “You look great, Nueleth. Thanks for inviting us in.” He gave Dane a look that said,  _ Relax. _

As Dane took a seat, Nueleth went to the shelf of wines and fingered a bottle, inspecting the label and putting it back. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure, boys? Not often the Barbaroi make house calls, especially off the books.” She found a wine she approved of and grasped it, turning back to them. “And they always want something.”

“It’s about Dane’s training,” Clarion said. “We’re a little concerned - that is,  _ he _ is, and I’m concerned because  _ he’s _ concerned - that he might be hard up for safe partners.”

Nueleth paused. “Seduction, huh?”

Clarion nodded solemnly.

“You prefer women?” Nueleth took a towel and began working to uncork the bottle. 

Dane also nodded solemnly.

With the cork popped out, Nueleth set out a few glasses. “What’s wrong with Trill?”

“You should first be asking ‘What’s wrong with Dane’,” Clarion said.

“Blood and darkness,” Dane muttered, bringing his palm to his face. He rested his elbow on the table and leaned into his hand. “This is not why I came here.”

Nueleth came over to him and leaned over the table, inspecting him closely.

Dane opened one eye.

She bit her lip and nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. I see why that wouldn’t work.” Turning back to the wine, she poured three glasses. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I gave one of yours a helping hand. Usually all it takes is building a little confidence, and then training might not seem so bad after all.” 

Nueleth brought the wine over. Clarion accepted his and set it down. Dane eyeballed it, then knocked it back.

“Okay if I leave you two?” Clarion was saying. “I’ve got a few errands to run. Be back later.”

“What?” Dane said, but Clarion was waving goodbye.

“Sure. See you.” Nueleth sat across from Dane as Clarion went out the door. She looked at his empty cup. “Don’t take that too fast. It’s champagne from the Eastern empires. Supposedly it can have aphrodisiac effects in bulk.”

Dane spat, but of course he’d already swallowed. “Why!? That’s the last thing I need!”

“From the look of things, it may be just  _ what _ you need.” Nueleth settled in her chair. “Actually wanting someone else might relax you a little. When was the last time you felt safe enough to really desire anyone?”

That gave Dane pause. He had just been thinking about how his anxiety got in the way of his sex life, after all. “...Maybe a year ago. Year and a half.”

Nueleth watched him carefully. “Traumatic first experience?”

“You could say that.” Dane looked away.

“Well, I won’t ask for details. In fact, the less I know, the better.” She steepled her fingers. “What I  _ do  _ need to know is what it is you need.”

Dane sighed and set down his glass. “Honestly, I just need to have a conversation with someone who’s not...part of my team about this. And maybe get an idea of what seduction is.” He fidgeted. “I’ve never really...seduced anyone. I’ve always relied on other skills.”

Nueleth quirked a brow. “Other skills?”

Might as well. “I have appeasement pheromones,” he said. “They make people more compliant or attracted to me, depending on my intention. My control isn’t perfect, though, and I never used them to sleep with anyone. At least, not intentionally.” He pressed his mouth into a line. “I wouldn’t want to, either.”

“Interesting,” Nueleth said. “Can I feel them?”

Dane did a double take. “Um. You don’t want to, trust me. They won’t wear off for a while. You’ll be compelled to do what you think I want, and I won’t necessarily be able to determine what that is.”

“Maybe another time, then.” Sipping her champagne, Nueleth shrugged and licked a drop off her lips. “You know how to flirt, I assume.”

“I, ah - I’m not exactly-”

“Why don’t you start by telling me about yourself,” she said, smiling. “I need to know more about you before I consider getting closer to you. Unless you’re going for the whole ‘man of mystery’ thing, but I think that’s too late in my case.” 

Much as Dane squirmed, he had to admit that Nueleth’s demeanor was putting him at ease. Trill and the others had been walking on eggshells, but Nueleth showed a complete lack of concern. It wasn’t that she was being callous, but rather demonstrating that she was capable and confident. 

That might be the first lesson here. Her charisma was conscious to some degree. If she didn’t appear cautious or worried, he wouldn’t worry either. Dealing with someone skittish required such nuance...like when Kenta’s bard companion had tried to calm the lady guard.

Dane took a deep breath. “Right. What do you want to know?”

Nueleth tapped the rim of her glass idly. “Let’s start with the basics. Where are you from?”

“Barovia,” Dane said. “My proper name is Dane von Zarovich.”

“Which makes you Strahd’s son,” Nueleth said. She stirred her champagne with a fingertip. “This is starting to make sense.”

“I see you’ve heard of my father,” Dane said with a tight smile.

“When you get around like I do, you hear a few things,” Nueleth said, and reached over to pour him more wine.

As she poured, Dane said, “You’re not alarmed?”

“You’re what, a half-vampire? You look too human to be otherwise. Clarion trusts you, I know you’re not here for my blood, and on top of that, you look like you’d explode if I blew you a kiss, so no.”

He blushed and muttered, “Not too far off, actually.”

Nueleth backed off, setting the champagne bottle aside. “So, why’d you leave home?”

Dane recovered. “There’s something I have to do. I can’t get strong enough alone.”

“Mm,” she said. “You’re cute, you’re driven,  _ and _ you’re not afraid to ask for help. I like that.” Nursing her drink, she gave him a coy look down the bridge of her nose.

She seemed to be waiting for him to speak. Dane considered for a moment. If this was her way of teaching him, he should at least try to flirt back. After all, she had asked if he knew how. 

“I like a woman who speaks her mind,” he ventured. 

Nueleth smiled. “Then we’ll get along just fine.” She set her hand on the table, close to the middle, but not overtly reaching toward him. “So, Dane. How many partners have you had?”

Dane leaned forward a little. “You’re asking a lot of questions. When do I get to ask you one?”

Her smile widened. “Whenever you want.”

“Then, where are you from?”

“Frigost,” Nueleth said. “But I left home pretty quickly. I frequent Adufell and the surface the most. I’m in town here for a little business investment.”

Dane nodded. “How long?”

She winked. “Long enough. So...about the surely innumerable women of your past…”

Snorting, Dane shook his head. “No partners to speak of. I had a few that came close, but it was never official, and most ended badly.” It was a sensitive topic for him, but the alcohol and Nueleth’s attitude made it feel like he could laugh about it a little.

“Have you ever been in love?”

That one stopped him cold. Dane looked at Nueleth, but she simply smiled, cradling her glass of champagne and watching him with hooded eyes. It was a deeply intimate question, but she seemed to be assigning it a different kind of intimacy. 

“...I don’t know,” he said, thinking of Trill and even Salara. 

“Hmmm,” Nueleth mused, and took a sip of her drink. “I don’t know if I’m ready to be the first woman in your life.”

Dane blinked, and then laughed. “I think you could handle me.”

Nueleth fixed him with a look, the first look she’d sent his way that had real heat to it. “The question is, can you handle me?”

Her words hung in the air for a moment.

Dane took a drink. “If I can get to know you a little better, I’d be willing to find out.”

Nueleth laughed. “Well done.”

“How did you end up trading wine?” he asked. “Did you know right away you wanted a tavern of your own?”

“Oh? You were serious.” Nueleth looked him over again, as if re-evaluating something. “Well, I tried everything after I left home. Adventuring, working as a fence, stable hand, highway robbery…” She grinned. “Eventually, I found my niche. I was waiting tables at a nice property on the surface, ready to climb my way up and own the place, when it got raided.” The champagne sloshed around in her glass as she gestured with it. “It was on an island, you see. These pirates stormed the whole settlement. I escaped, but the tavern was burned to the ground.”

Dane winced. 

“I was young then. Told myself I’d have one just like it, no matter what it took. And now here I am, a little older, but still very attached to the idea.” Nueleth took another sip and set down her glass. “So now you know.”

“Indeed,” Dane said. “You set a goal and you’re working toward it with the most profitable means available to you. It’s smart. But, I’m curious. Why Dhikanye?”

Nueleth sat back in her chair and stretched. “Well, I came to try and get a foothold with a few competitors. Put out the feelers, you know? A few of my colleagues told me there was going to be an opening soon.” She shrugged. “A few days after I arrived, Julian Du Crasse gets a knife in the back, and suddenly I’m in business.”

“No way.” Dane laughed. “Did you say Du Crasse?”

She nodded. “What about him?”

“I’m the one that killed him!” Dane presented his dominant hand, where normally he’d have a phantom blade strapped to his arm. “Put the knife in his back myself.”

Nueleth’s free hand, the one that had been resting oh-so-innocuously on the table all this time, shot up and grabbed his, turning it in the light. “Interesting,” she said. “I owe you one, then.” She lowered their hands to the table, resting hers just slightly on top of his. Her fingernails were short and painted black, and her skin was soft, but not unsettling like the priestess’s. 

“I’m just happy to be of use,” Dane said smoothly. He was rather enjoying himself now. 

“Well, you have my sincere appreciation,” Nueleth said. Her pinky finger rubbed against the back of his hand, seemingly independent of their conversation. “I’m glad you proved just as interesting as I thought you’d be.”

“You say that a lot,” Dane said. “ _ Interesting _ .”

“Maybe it’s because you are,” she said with a wry smile.

Dane smiled back.

“Dane, I’m willing to have sex with you,” Nueleth said. “But if you don’t want to, I understand completely.”

“I-” Dane shifted in his seat. “You don’t have to-”

“I already feel like I helped you out,” she said. “I mean, I still think it’d be good for you, but this is purely for my...interest.” 

Dane blushed. Nueleth smiled wider.

“I want you,” she said, tracing a line up the inside of his wrist. “No pheromones involved. See how easy that was?”

With a nervous chuckle, Dane relaxed a little. “I’d hardly call it easy.”

Nueleth laughed. “No need to flatter me, I  _ know  _ I’m a catch. So…” She leaned closer, voice dropping almost to a whisper. “Think you can handle me?”

Dane moistened his lips. “I think I’ll risk it.”

With a broad smile, Nueleth stood, letting her hand drift off his arm. “Well, then. Shall we go upstairs?”

Wordlessly, Dane stood to follow her. He felt much more secure in admiring the surely deliberate sway of her hips as she led him up the narrow staircase, through a low door and into a small upper room. There was a bed, low to the floor, and a few shelves and drawers. Fabric hung from the walls and made the room a nest of color.

“A tad cramped up here,” Dane said, ducking under the doorway. He shed his coat and sword belt, leaving them on the landing.

“It gets the job done,” said Nueleth, walking to the other side of the bed and securing the pins in her braid. She turned back to him and noticed he’d begun to undress. “Don’t get too far without me.”

Dane took a few more steps to draw level with her and she reached out, pressing a hand against his chest. Her other hand came up to cup his chin, thumb catching on his lower lip.

“Let’s see those fangs, big boy,” she said in a husky voice.

With a low hum, Dane gave her an open-mouthed smirk, showing off his elongated canines.

Nueleth appreciated the view for a moment before surging forward and kissing the smirk off his face. She was as experienced as he’d thought, and almost aggressive, biting his lip and sliding her tongue into his mouth.

“Sorry,” she giggled as she pulled away. “I’m told I can get a little greedy.”

Dane slid his hands up her waist. “I don’t mind,” he purred, and kissed her jaw, then up near her sensitive ears. She chuckled, then gasped as he flicked his tongue against the pointed tip. Her hands skimmed under the hem of his shirt.

“I’ll warn you,” she said as she hiked it up, running her hands over his torso. “Most women need a lot of foreplay to get going. You’re gonna run into that if you’re seducing them left and right once I let you go.”

Pulling back to let her pull the shirt over his head, Dane nodded. “I’ll follow your lead, then.”

“Sure,” she said, smiling. “I don’t mind playing teacher a while longer.” Her fingers slid up to toy with his nipple, and then she kissed his chest, running her mouth down to it. Her tongue and lips were wet; it made him shiver.

Dane reached up to tentatively cup her breasts, and Nueleth leaned into his touch. They were small, but round, and still enough to keep his hands busy.

“You like my little boobs?” Nueleth batted his hands away to take off her top, revealing a large tattoo on her right side of what appeared to be dragon knucklebones. Dane traced it before returning to her bust. “You seem like you’d be a fool for big ones,” she said teasingly. “Am I right?”

With a blush, Dane thought back to the barmaid earlier that day - and to Trill, before that, and every time he’d ogled her prior. “I can appreciate any size,” he said, massaging her gently to prove his point.

Nueleth smiled and guided his hands to grope her the way she liked, whispering encouragement to play with her nipples as she had his. While Dane was busy with that, she shed her leggings and slowly lowered herself, bringing him with her onto the bed.

Dane felt her hands working at his waistband and perked up, kissing to the hollow of her throat. Nueleth smiled down at him, pulling his pants down slowly, as if she didn’t want to startle him.

“Comfortable?” she asked.

Giving her a squeeze, Dane smiled back. “So far so good.”

Once both their boots were off, Nueleth pulled him with her all the way onto the bed. They lay side by side kissing, and she stroked down his abdomen to cup his groin, kneading gently as he grew harder against her palm. Dane shivered, stroking down her flank just as he’d done in his dream and playing his fingertips questioningly at the inside of her thigh.

Nueleth laughed. “All right, if you’re too curious to let me go to work on you. Come here.” She rolled onto her back and spread her legs, letting him kneel beneath her lap. Once she removed her smallclothes, she was totally bare for him to see.

Dane wondered at the slight changes in pigmentation around her slit, and let Nueleth guide his hand, showing him how to touch and please her. Emboldened by working with his fingers, he bent down and pressed his mouth against her, moving his tongue on instinct.

Nueleth made a soft noise of want and stroked his hair, encouraging him closer. “Be quick,” she said. “Short licks, and curl your fingers.”

Dane did as she asked. After he kept that up for a while, Nueleth tugged on his hair and summoned him away to look up at her. “Good?” His mouth and chin were drenched.

“Good,” she said. “A little more and I’ll come. Normally I’d let you, but this is a good time for me to cool down and give you some attention. I want to let you inside me while we both have a chance at enjoying it to the fullest.”

With a low chuckle, Dane wiped his lips on the back of his hand and rolled onto his side. “Still trying to give me confidence?”

“You know it.” Nueleth pushed him onto his back and did away with his own underwear, sliding her hand up his length with a sure grip. Dane thought back to his musing on whether to touch himself that morning, and found it ludicrous now that he was quite literally in the capable hands of someone like Nueleth.

She licked the inside of her hand and, with firm, strident tugs, brought him to the hardest he could possibly be. Dane’s eyes rolled back in his head and he moaned out his pleasure, making her laugh. 

“Feels a lot better when someone else takes care of it, doesn’t it?” she said, with a particularly strong tug.

Dane looked up at her. “How is it you’ve known exactly what I’m thinking twice now?”

She leaned over him and kissed the corner of his mouth, rubbing his tip against her belly. “You’re an open book. Don’t worry, it’s working for you.” Sitting back up, she rose up on her haunches and positioned him beneath her. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Dane said. 

Nueleth moved her hips in circles teasing them both. “You sure?”

“What, do you want me to beg?” Dane grinned, baring his fangs a little, the way he’d come to know she liked.

She laughed. “Maybe later.” And with that, she lowered herself onto him until she sat on his lap. Her body was warm, wet, and yielding, and she began to move.

It was an odd parallel to the dream he’d woken up from that morning. Nueleth rode facing him, hands traveling up her front, showing off for him and occasionally bracing herself on his ribs and chest. Dane knew where and how to touch her now, and made use of his thumb between her legs until she became as vocal as he was. 

It wasn’t long before Dane felt the muscles in his back and groin tighten and heat started to pool in his abdomen. “I’m getting pretty close,” he managed, though it was a bit harder to talk now.

“Good,” Nueleth said, keeping her composure somewhat better. “That’s what I want.” She moved faster, digging her nails into his thighs. “You don’t need to worry about anything, just come whenever you like.”

Dane wanted to protest. He wanted Nueleth to feel good, too. But before he could speak, his orgasm struck, white-hot and thrumming through his veins. Nueleth slowed her bouncing down to a steady, tantric rhythm, stroking his cheek as he rode it out.

When he came down, softening slowly inside her, she pulled off him and laid next to him, kissing his forehead. “Was that good for you?”

“Very,” he said, already reaching for the cleft of her legs with afterglow-clumsy fingers. “I’m more interested in making sure it was good for  _ you. _ ”

“Oh, it felt good, all right,” she said, then laughed as his fingers found their objective. “You can finish me off like this if you want, but I’ll be nowhere close to done after that.”

“I have no complaints,” said Dane, rising to minister to her properly.

Nueleth raised an eyebrow. “Oh? How many more times do you think you can go?”

“Two, maybe three. Four, tops.” Dane worked his fingers inside her. “Dhampirë have excellent stamina, and I happen to be blessed with an above-average refractory period.”

“And how do you know that, you naughty boy?” Nueleth reached behind him to cup his rear with a cheeky squeeze. “Well, then. Sounds like we can keep each other pretty busy.”

“Indeed,” Dane said, and leaned down to taste himself in her.

When Clarion returned, Dane and Nueleth were dressed and reclining at the table downstairs. She had poured them both a little more wine, and Dane was rubbing her sore feet, which were folded in his lap. At Clare’s knock, she got up to unlock the door, casting a wink over her shoulder at Dane.

“Hi there,” Clarion said when she answered. “It go well?”

Nueleth smiled. “Take a look at him and see for yourself.”

He looked across the room at Dane, who had curled up in his chair like a cat - and was now dozing off. 

“Oh, yeah,” Clarion said. “It went well.”


	11. The World (Reversed)

After only a few sessions of brush-up to see where Dane stood, Trill declared, “All right. I’m satisfied. We don’t have to go any farther than you’re comfortable.”

Dane nodded. He was somewhat relieved, but hadn’t been in a state of anxiety over the matter for some time now. In the end, all Trill wanted to do was go over how people flirted - Underdark dwellers and surface-worlders, respectively - and get a sense for Dane’s physicality. She showed him how to walk, move and pose to emphasize his figure, coaxing him into owning his height when he’d been used to stooping to avoid drawing attention. There were other things, too. He hadn’t _ technically _gotten away without kissing her, for one.

“One last thing,” said Trill. “Do you feel confident defending against seduction now?” 

The lines of Dane’s forehead creased. “As in fending off unwanted advances?”

“As in not letting a mark get the better of you.” With a pointed look, Trill stretched, emphasizing her chest with an arch of her back as if to remind him how stupid he’d been for those curves not long ago. “Remember, as a male, you’re the_ pursued _ down here. The _ quarry _. At least, for those who cling to the old ways.”

They were in a small room below the apothecary shop, to the side of its abandoned wine cellar. It had been furnished with a table and two chairs, and lit with a romantic array of scarlet candles, which appropriately set the tone for the subject matter of this training. What a shame they would soon retire it.

Dane maintained eye contact. “Reasonably confident,” he said. “Won’t know till I try. If my hypothetical admirers are anything like that priestess, I’ll have a harder time hiding my revulsion than not getting attached.”

Trill laughed softly. “All part of the game.” But she seemed intent on something particular. She stood. “Imagine I’m your target, or someone close to them. You’ve got me interested.” Walking over to his chair, she tugged at his elbow. “Come on, stand up.”

Dane stood. 

“We’re dancing,” she said, “Since you mentioned the gala again.” And she put her arms around him. Dane got his hands in the right positions and let her lead, much slower than they’d danced before. There was no music but the swing of Trill’s hips, but he felt the song all the same.

When it finished, she drew back, let go of all but his hand, brought it to her lips, and kissed it. Not a proper greeting kiss, although there was contact - this was full of smoke and suggestion.

“Was that alright?” Trill said, almost at a whisper.

Dane would not let her feel him tremble. It was easier than he thought it’d be. “Of course.”

Trill straightened and released his hand, back to business. “Well, either I’m not as good as I thought, or your diligence has paid off.” She shook her hair behind her shoulders. “Anything else you want to cover before we call it quits and move on?”

Aside from wanting to take her somewhere nice, talk awhile, and get to know her better than just as a friend and teacher, no, but that part of him was quiet now. And that was the real growth he’d undergone here, at least in his book.

It wasn’t the seduction and the assumed identities that gave him trouble, it was his real feelings towards real people. 

“No, I think I’m out of questions,” he said. 

Trill nodded. “Good. Then, why don’t we rejoin the others? I think it’s time we took on our next job.”

Their next job, as it turned out, was less glamorous than the gala, or even than skulking on rooftops.

“We’re going to be washing this out for a week,” Clarion moaned, knee-deep in..._ something _. 

Shit. It was shit.

They were indeed going to spend a lot of time washing, because this trip took them through the sewers and into the undercity. Their task was, allegedly, to find a certain noble’s son who had gone missing in a drug house and kill him before he could be of any more embarrassment to his family. 

He was also confirmed to be planning on giving Naurkuroi his support when he came into his inheritance, so the Barbaroi had taken interest in this rather _ wet _ wetworking job.

Clarion’s complaint went largely unaddressed, apart from Trill turning from where she waded in the lead and reminding him to keep it down. The sewers echoed. Fifer was behind her, stoic, but wearing a childish scowl. Dane, perhaps the worst off, suffered in silence. 

He had a clothespin over his nose.

After a while, Trill stopped and motioned for the others to cease their sloshing. “Sshhh. Hear that?”

Light streamed in from a barred grate a few feet above her head. There was a muffled din that, if Dane listened, he could identify as the sounds of carousing.

“We’re close,” Trill said. “But our target location will be quiet. Drug houses always are. Wait until we find a building that’s totally silent, and guarded.” She climbed up, scaling the seemingly sheer wall, and popped the grate.

Dane followed behind her and Fifer. “Won’t the stench give us away?”

“_ Everything _smells like us down here,” Fifer said curtly, before clambering up to Trill. 

With a sigh and a shrug, Dane followed. He was glad he hadn’t worn a nicer pair of boots.

There were no guards in this corner of the undercity, possibly because the princess felt no need to enforce public safety and there was no property of value. Four rather pungent black shadows stole across the road from the sewer like a family of raccoons. Not that Dane had ever seen a raccoon, but one reads about these things.

There was an eerie pallor to the empty streets, as if traveling itself were a danger. Which wasn’t too uncommon for nighttime in other places, but in the Underdark, it was unusual to say the least. It didn’t help matters that they were far from the black market or any place of unsavory business. All the sinners in this part of town were behind closed doors, except the ones that preyed on others.

Dane wondered if there were other vampires here, or if the werewolves would have gotten them all.

The buildings here were ramshackle and sloping, casting interesting shadows on the cracked flagstones. Occasionally a figure would cross an alleyway or peek out from a corner, like a ghost. They all gave the Barbaroi a wide berth. Any who observed them here, even without knowing who they were, knew their business was to kill.

“Think it’s that one,” Fifer said to Trill. She was indicating a building with a collapsing verandah, rickety stairs leading to an entrance on the second floor. There were no guards posted outside, but the doors had light coming out through the cracks and there were the telltale blots of feet right behind them. Shapes in the windows, too.

“Could be,” Trill said. “We’re not going in the front.”

Trill brought them around, where she located a pair of wooden doors sunk into the stone foundation. Clarion and Dane stood in front of them and, wordlessly, each kicked at the inner handles. The doors burst open.

There was a stream of sound. Sobbing, deranged laughter, groaning and gurgling - but it was all soft, soft in a way that was kind of sad. Even with his clothespin, Dane could smell the blood - blood from needles, blood from sores, blood from the nose, ears and eyes. 

This was a place of death. A place where people came to die.

“Dane?” Trill’s voice cut through his swimming vision. She and the others had filed in, leaving him the only one standing outside.

He swallowed. “Right,” he said, and followed them in.

It seemed that the sentries hadn’t noticed their incursion. Loud bumps probably happened all the time. There was no telling, anyway, if they were bruiser types or children acting as lookouts. Both presented unique problems.

With Trill still in the lead, they passed a few piles of rubbish in a vomit-stained hallway before ascending a single flight of stairs. There, they found another hallway - this one populated. The doors looked like cell doors almost; each had a sliding panel that could be used to look in. presumably for whoever ran the place to keep tabs on their “customers”. 

“We’ll have to check each one,” Trill said. “Have you all reviewed the sketch?”

Fifer and Clarion nodded. Dane did too, when his turn came. They’d all seen both an official portrait and an artist’s rendering of the man they’d come for. They would have to judge their memory against the people here. 

The four of them split off to search the hallway. Dane took three doors near where they’d come in. Fifer took the next three, and Trill and Clarion handled the other side.

The knob to slide back the panel on this door was stained, because apparently everything here was stained, with rusty old blood and dried saliva. Dane slid it back.

The room was small, offering the denizen a cot and a pail to relieve themselves in. The pail could be emptied into a mesh grate leading straight into the sewer, but Dane suspected the majority of such pails he observed tonight would be chronically unattended. The walls were peeling, the floor bare rock.

On the floor was a sleeping duergar. They were a heap of ratty clothes and untamed body hair.

Not the target. Dane moved on.

There was a dull _ thud-thud-thudding _sound coming from the next door, and as Dane slid back its viewing panel, he saw why. The man in this room was banging his head against the wall. He was completely silent, not even grunting in pain. Dane could not tell if he was a drow or a dark-skinned human, but he wasn’t the noble’s son.

Dane moved on.

The next door led to a room where a female drow sat facing away from him, staring at the ceiling. She gave no notice of Dane’s peeping. Her features were gaunt, but she was not very old.

Dane moved on. 

The four of them had cleared the hallway. After they all exchanged signals that no, they hadn’t found the target yet, Trill motioned up the stairs and they climbed to the higher floor.

This hallway was much the same as the first. Dane took three doors and found broken-looking people too blissed out to care that he was looking. None of his charges were the target, however.

The four of them all turned inward and looked at each other.

“So, where is he?” Clarion mouthed.

Trill thought for a moment then pointed up. _ Attic? _

If not, they would have to broaden their search, which would mean staking out this part of town another night. And render their trek through the sewers pointless. Dane was not comfortable with that idea.

They carefully tiptoed past the gap in the hallway, where it intersected with the entrance - marked by a lantern and two men wearing scimitars.

There was indeed an attic. Where the lower floors had built-in rooms, the attic had been repurposed with wooden dividers that stood on square, roughshod feet. There was more open noise up here; just the breathing all collected in the center of the space.

The four of them stole among the cots, turning aside bedsheets and wooden planks that had been hung up like doors to peer in.

Dane didn’t find the target, but he did find someone who was awake. Another drow woman, who gasped through her teeth as she saw him.

He lifted a finger to his lips.

“Please,” she said, reaching out a trembling hand. Her eyes were bloodshot, and with her other hand, she scratched at her lower lids with nails bitten to the quick. “Do you have it?”

Dane shook his head, shushing her more forcefully. The others were starting to look his way.

The woman only grew more agitated. She stumbled off her cot like a marionette on fraying strings. “Please,” she repeated. “I need it...”

Pursing his lips, Dane warded her off. His pheromones wouldn’t work while she was already hopped up on something else. But he was too half-hearted while deciding what to do and let her latch onto him.

Trill appeared behind him. “What have you got?”

“Not him,” Dane said. “She was awake.”

The woman was rifling through Dane’s pockets, searching for drugs. Dane’s attempts to stifle her were hampered by his desire not to hurt her. And, if he became too rough, she might scream.

Trill gave this scene a once-over. “Clarion found the target. Handle her and we’ll go.” Then she was gone.

The woman was getting desperate. She looked up at Dane and tried to pull down his pants. It was getting leftover sewer muck on her arms. “I can pay…” she said.

That was enough. Dane took her wrists and pulled her off him. She cried out, and he hurried to cover her mouth, crushing her to his chest. Her teeth sank into his fingers, but he held on.

There were noises downstairs.

“We need to go!” Fifer hissed. “Choke her out and have done!”

Dane, already frustrated, cursed the guards for choosing this sound to investigate. He slipped his arm around the woman’s neck and grabbed his wrist, squeezing the blade of his forearm and his bicep into each of her carotid arteries. She gasped and struggled, tried to scream. He tried not to think about what he was doing.

In thirty to forty seconds she’d be asleep. The problem was, the men running up the stairs might not take that long. Dane could easily kill them, but if the Barbaroi wanted that, they’d have done it outright. Their business was clean jobs. Only the target died unless absolutely necessary. Du Crasse’s bodyguards, who never left his side, had been an exception. 

Thankfully, her body was weak, and she went limp sooner than he expected. He laid her out on the floor and then headed for the attic window, where Fifer was waiting, watching him from the sill. 

The woman likely wouldn’t survive a trip back through the sewers if he tried to rescue her. She might die if she stayed here, too, but if Dane knew one thing about the kind of drugs sold here, it was that cutting her off cold turkey would kill her more surely than anything else.

Dane vaulted over the window and hit the ground, catlike, to join the others. Fifer came down behind him. As the guards reached the attic, the four of them went back to the sewer, sliding in through the still-open grate.

Just one life amidst all this. He couldn’t expect to save it.


	12. The Star (Upright)

Dane was beginning to truly hate crowds.

He’d never been in a place like Dhkaniye, between the enclosed spaces and relative population density. People simply didn’t live this close together in Barovia, and there weren’t nearly as many of them. Having to skirt between moving bodies, bombarded with smells and sound, trying to avoid touching anyone - it had been foreign to him when he arrived, and he didn’t think he’d ever get used to it.

“Are you going to tell me why we’re leaving so quickly?” he said, doubling his steps to keep pace with Trill. His strides were already longer than hers, but she had the advantage of knowing their purpose. Clarion and Fifer were in tow not far behind, presumably as clueless as he was.

Trill didn’t take her eyes off the road ahead. She had roused them in a hurry that morning, ordered them to pack, and then led them in stripping the house of any sign they’d ever been there, physically and magically. Up close, she was grim and tense, but not apprehensive. Not yet.

“We must return to the covert,” she said. “Mentor is calling us back. All of us. Which she wouldn’t just _ do,  _ not if she wasn’t preparing for something big.” Her brow furrowed. “Or at all, even then.”

“You think we’re going to try it?” Clarion said. “For real?”

Fifer snorted. “Bearding Naurkuroi? Already? Not likely. We haven’t weakened her nearly enough yet.”

“So  _ you _ say,” retorted Clarion. “Mentor knows things we don’t. Maybe-”

“I’m with Trill,” Dane said. Fifer muttered something like  _ no surprise there.  _ “This is out of character for Mentor. Even I can tell that.” 

They were relying on the privacy of numbers to cover their conversation, but that didn’t stop all of them from casting wary glances to the people walking on either side of them. The foot traffic itself wasn’t that unusual, but there seemed to be a large number of people in this area of the city today, and most of them moving in the same direction. 

“Is it just me,” Fifer said. “Or do  _ they _ all seem to know something, too?”

Trill nodded. “Main spire. They’re all headed to the square outside the cathedral.”

“But…” Dane looked around. His head throbbed. This was aggravating some already-present hypertension. “Why?”

“My guess is an execution,” said Fifer.

“Close,” Trill said, nodding toward a crier on the adjacent street corner. “Looks like they’re burning some heretics. So why the big turnout?”

“If Mentor’s getting restless, Naurkuroi is too,” Clarion suggested. “We’ve had a load of successful ops recently. And that says nothing to other cells. She must feel cornered.”

The four of them stopped as a wagon tore across the road in front of them, scattering the pedestrians trying to cross. Silt and rubbish splashed into the air. Rather than your typical merchant wagon, this one was full of armored guards, packed like sardines.

“I’m beginning to think you may be right, Clare,” Dane said.

Trill waved them forward again. “We’d better see what’s happening at the square. I’m worried for our Sisters.”

The journey to the central spire involved crossing the network of interlatticed bridges that connected the city. They were under heavy guard, plate-clad wolves ushering people toward the square. Torches and flags were on display where Dane didn’t remember them being before. A few individuals and small groups of citygoers were already involved in arguments with the guards.

This atmosphere continued into the cathedral square, where the sea of bodies was so thick that Dane had to jostle and shove just to stay with Trill. She was making a beeline for the front of the crowd. He shouldered someone out of the way and felt them grab at his tunic, but paid them no heed.

It seemed there was a large, temporary platform outside the front steps of the cathedral. On it were three wooden poles, adorned with kindling at the base. Two of them already bore people chained to them, one a drow whom Dane could not identify but looked exceptionally old, and the other a middle-aged woman with an eye patch who snarled at the crowd. Two guards were bringing a third while someone addressed the crowd.

Dane pulled up short behind Trill, who had stopped before they reached the perimeter of guards around the platform. “Anyone we know?”

“Not thus far,” she said. “Look. It’s our mutual friend.”

Atop the platform, flanked by a small honor guard, was a priestess of Lolth - and, thanks to Trill’s hint, Dane recognized her as the one from the gala. Not by her face, obviously, but her bearing was the same. She wore an ensemble of dull, dark grey armor and a dress that hung down in swathes of purple fabric.

“We summon you today, loyal denizens of this city, to witness the work of our Goddess. When you came to us for refuge, for work, for livelihood, you took an oath! According to your station, all without exception!” She began to pace. “On the blood of your mothers and daughters, you swore to uphold Her holy covenant, even to your dying breath!”

“Most of them swore just for the right to live here,” muttered Fifer. “The rest is all her fantasy.”

The priestess raised her fist and clenched it. “But among you there are those who would break that covenant.” She turned back to the stakes. “Whose heresy offends our Goddess’s mighty truth and power.”

The guards were having trouble bringing the last heretic onto the platform. Dane heard a woman’s voice protesting, and the sounds of a struggle. He strained to see what was happening.

“We shall cut into the heart of this infestation, and burn a path to the divine beyond!” the priestess was saying. “In the sacred name of Lolth; all shall love her and despair!”

“Let go of me!” cried the unseen woman. “Let go! I saw one! I promise I did!”

Dane gave a start. “That voice…”

One of the guards muscled the woman onto the platform. The priestess spun around as she stumbled across the planks, collapsing onto the empty stake and then pushing off it, lunging for the hem of her dress.

“Please, Mistress, I’ve told no lies!” the woman sobbed. “I really did see an angel! Why won’t anyone believe me?”

Clarion sucked in a breath. “Dane!” he whispered sharply.

“I see her,” Dane murmured.

It was the woman from the attic, in the flesh. Not only had she survived, but she’d somehow ended up an  _ honored guest _ at a religious execution.

“Lolth sends us no angels,” the priestess said. “She needs none, and we need none. Tell me, girl. What did your false angel do?”

“It came to me,” the woman said desperately. “There was Death in the house - Sisters, come to take some or all of us to hell, but it stood between them and me. Protected me. It…” She swayed where she stood. “It embraced me, and I awoke and the danger had passed!”

“...what the fuck,” Fifer said flatly. 

Clare gave Dane a look. “Does this happen often?”

“He chokes someone out and he’s an angel,” said Fifer. “It’s bloody unfair.”

“Stop it!” Dane said. “They’re going to kill her!”

The priestess curled her lip. She strode forward and struck the woman across the face, sending her sprawling onto the planks with a cry. “Disgusting. Bind this addict and put her to flame as the Goddess commands.” With a flourish, she addressed the crowd once more. “Let this be a message to all who would disobey! Aiat!”

“Aiat!” came the affirmation from the guards, and any loyalists in the crowd.

As the guards dragged the woman over to the stake to chain her up, Dane shook himself from his daze and tensed, then looked at Trill. “They’re going to kill her,” he said again.

“Yes,” said Trill. Her eyes traveled down his arm to where his hand had found his sword. “She’s not a Sister, you know. And she never will be.”

“If she dies,” Dane said. “It will break the creed in my name. My blade will have shed the blood of an innocent.”

Trill nodded. “Very well. Fifer, Clare, hit the rooftops. Dane frees her, you disorient them, I go under the platform and help him get her out.”

Fifer was gone without another word.

“Yes,” said Clarion, and he was off in the other direction.

Trill turned to Dane. “Move fast,” she said, and disappeared.

Dane looked up to the platform. The guards had bound the woman to the stake with rope, which would hold her there while they secured the heavier and more complex chains. The other two ‘heretics’ were already aflame, and their screaming and the sound of burning flesh was rising in the air.

He would have only one chance. Just one amidst all this.

He planted his feet and crouched, then sprang, making for the platform with leaps and bounds. The guards cordoning off the perimeter only saw a black blur come between them before he was on the platform, loosing a phantom blade and shredding the ropes binding his charge to the stake.

If she cried out upon recognizing him, he only half heard it. The priestess on one side and the guards on the other demanded his attention. 

As he drew his sword, the whistles of Fifer and Clarion’s own phantom blades announced two of the guards were dead. A third raced past them as they fell, swinging at him with a short blade. He parried, meeting force with force, and their weapons exploded with sparks. Dane’s blade was longer, and he skated off the guard’s and into a chink in their armor, puncturing soft flesh.

The priestess’s first attack was magical, and came at him from behind. Rather than try a counterspell, Dane jumped, disengaging from the guard and letting the spell continue through the space underneath him. It turned out to be a crackling ball of lightning, which hit the guard in the solar plexus and bounced to three others, electrocuting them all to death. They fell in heaps of smoking armor.

Several of the wolves in the crowd were taking their hybrid forms and howling, running for the platform. Half the spectators had scattered; the rest were backing off to stay and enjoy the unplanned entertainment. More phantom blades and the occasional smoke bomb rained from the rooftops as Fifer and Clare did the best they could to keep the wolves busy without exposing themselves.

Dane feinted at the priestess, but she moved instantaneously in a smear of mist, reappearing ten feet to the right between the two burning stakes. She sent a spasm of green magic at him, and he leaned away, cleanly dodging what would have been too fast a spell for any human. It hit a building across the square and disintegrated it completely, rousing a chorus of screams.

Trill swung onto the far end of the platform and ran low, throwing a knife into one guard and then scooping up the woman, who had been sitting stunned in the ruins of her bonds. Dane made to break with the priestess and follow her, but something moved through his blind spot.

He turned and met a claw strike from a hybrid with a familiar snout, even transformed. The fur around it was patchy and reddish. “ _ YOU!”  _ the werewolf roared in passable Common. “ _ I KNEW I SMELLED NIGHT-CREATURE ON YOU!”  _ Its arm extended, pushing his sword back.

Dane grinned ruefully. “Hello, Wycliffe. Heard the gala broke up badly. So sorry we had to leave early.” He dodged another strike. The air whistled through Wycliffe’s claws. 

“ _ I’VE SMELLED DHAMPIR THRICE NOW,”  _ Wycliffe said, a savage glint in his eye.  _ “AND AFTER TODAY, I’LL HAVE TASTED ONE!”  _ He aimed a front-kick at Dane. When Dane dodged his bony, clawed foot, Wycliffe landed on it hard and tackled him, snapping at his throat with yellowed snaggleteeth. 

Dane struggled, grabbing Wycliffe’s throat and the underside of his jaw to push it up and away, but that left his arms and ribs open to the werewolf’s claws. He felt three or four burning lashes slice through his skin, and hissed, kicking at Wycliffe’s stomach. He didn’t have enough purchase to do real damage or push him off, and the priestess was casting another spell.

Something heavy came down on Wycliffe’s back and he yelped, shaking like he’d just been bathed and twisting off Dane with a whine. Clarion unrolled from a black ball, pulling a dagger from the werewolf’s ribs and leaping off to yank Dane onto his feet. 

The priestess had raised her hands skyward and thrown her head back. “Lolth!” She screamed in a frenzy. “Burn these heretics to ash! Pass your judgement through me!” The palms of her hands began to glow a violent orange.

“We need to go!” Clarion said, and grabbed Dane’s wrist. “Now!”

“Trill!” Dane said. “Fifer! The woman!” 

“All gone ahead!” Clarion said, dodging a lunge from Wycliffe that forced him to let go of Dane. “Go!”

The priestess let a shriek tear from her throat that seemed loose from the Abyss itself. As Dane watched, a pillar of fire sprang from her hands and descended on the platform, incinerating whatever it touched. The wounds in his arms and sides screamed with raw, unguarded pain.

He ducked under Wycliffe’s outstretched claw, grabbed Clarion, and jumped, clearing the platform and sailing to the awning of the cathedral entrance. As he found a foothold, curling his free hand around a gargoyle’s wingtip, he looked back and saw the fire consume the entire platform, priestess and Wycliffe included.

“Got to love it when the insane zealots do themselves in for us,” Clarion said. “Now what are you waiting for? We have to keep moving!”

Dane swung them up above the gargoyle, threw Clarion over his shoulder, and did just that.

It took the woman about three blocks before she started resisting Trill. She wriggled and tried to break free of the arm securing her to Trill’s hip, flailing her arms and legs. “Down! Put me down, I can run on my own!”

It was this scene that Clarion and Dane caught up to, alighting in the empty street just before being pulled into an alleyway by Fifer.

“You know, I’m really beginning to notice how much pulling we all do, and how much business we conduct in alleyways,” Dane said.

“It’s what they’re  _ for, _ ” said Fifer impatiently. “We can’t stay here. We’re still too close.”

“But we can’t take her back to the covert,” Clarion said. “Can we?”

Trill was still wrangling the woman. “We could,” she said. “But she would have to leave eventually, or not at all.”

“What are you talking about!?” the woman cried. “Let me go! It’s not my time!”

“Quiet!” Trill said, lowering her to the ground and pushing her against the wall. “We are not reapers, nor are we anything to do with harvesting souls. You’re confusing us with the Shadar-kai, and there are few things more offensive to a Barbaroi. So  _ stop. _ ”

The woman froze, staring at Trill with wide eyes. Dane observed her dirty, straight black hair, her slightly sunken eyes and the yellow tint in her fingernails. Whatever they’d had her using, she hadn’t been dependent on it long. She had been beautiful once. She could be again. But she needed to get help, and the Barbaroi, while many things, were not perhaps the best resource for rehabilitation.

Certainly not when they seemed to be preparing for an offensive.

It came to him suddenly. “We should take her to Nueleth,” he said. “She’ll know what to do. Or know someone. She’s skipping town soon; they’ll both be safe.”

“What if she asks a fee?” Trill said, not taking her eyes off the petrified woman. 

“I’ll pay it,” said Dane, moving past Clarion and Fifer and putting his hand on Trill’s shoulder.

Trill nodded and let go of the woman, backing away. 

Plaintive eyes turned to Dane and widened further in recognition. “You,” the woman breathed.

“Hello,” Dane said. “What’s your name?”

“Kara,” she said, her bottom lip trembling.

“Kara.” He sounded it out. “I think I should clear something up. I’m not…” Ensuring that he made no sudden moves, he stepped closer, showing her his face mask. “I’m not an angel. I’m a Sister, like them.”

“Sister in  _ training, _ ” Fifer said helpfully.

Dane glared at her over his shoulder. “ _ Thank  _ you.”

“I have a message,” said Kara.

Dane whipped his head around. “Sorry?”

“For you. I have a message,” Kara said. “You aren’t the only one who was with me that night. There was someone else. Someone who came after.” 

“What?” 

“Istus came to me,” Kara said. “I don’t know her, but she said she was a goddess, and she said-”

“Real popular with the divine, isn’t she?” Fifer said.

“Quiet,” said Clarion.

Kara continued. “She said this was a token of good faith. To make up for failures to come.”

Dane processed this. “Whose failures?  _ This? _ What did she mean?”

“I- I don’t know,” Kara said. “I only know what she told me…” 

“Did this Istus set you on a path to meet him again?” Trill asked.

Kara leaned heavily on the wall. She was clearly still very frightened. “I think so...I don’t know.”

“She’s in shock,” Fifer said flatly. “She can’t make heads or tails of what she thinks she saw.”

“I believe her,” Clarion said. He smiled at Kara and offered her his hand.

“I believe she believes herself,” Trill said, directly to Dane. “She needs to get off the streets. We’ll take her to Nueleth like you said.”

Dane nodded. “Right. Are we all four going or do we split up?”

Noise from the square had been at a steady roar as people panicked and the guards tried to get the blaze under control, but now there were shouts and flickers of torchlight moving into the nearby streets.

Trill looked aside, towards the mouth of the alleyway. “We’ll all go. Splitting up now is a bad move.” She looked at Clarion, who had coaxed Kara into taking his hand and was speaking to her in soft tones. “Kara,” she said. “Will you consent to leave this place with us?”

“I don’t think I have a choice,” Kara said, looking between Trill, Clarion, and the path to the road.

“Right. May I?” Clarion picked her up under the shoulders and knees in a princess carry. “Dane, a lift, if you would.”

Dane came up behind Clarion and grabbed him under the armpits, making sure he and Kara wouldn’t fall.

“What are you going to-” Kara broke off into a scream as Dane leapt into the air, dragging her and Clarion with him. They cleared the rooves of the alley and landed firmly on loose shingles. 

Dane let go of Clarion. “To the bridge,” he said, and glanced behind them to confirm that Fifer and Trill had also come up to the roof. They had.

“No wolves nipping at our heels this time, please,” Fifer said. “Let’s get her out of here quickly.”

“And then back to the covert,” Trill said. “I’ll ensure we’re not followed. Dane, up front.”

Dane checked the next gap between buildings and, on eye on the roads below, broke into a run. 

His boots were beginning to wear through. Anymore they absorbed little of the shock when he traversed the city by means of freerunning. Pins and needles ran up his legs as he jumped across the rooftops, understated to what he’d feel were he a mere human. 

He was careful to take a route that Clarion could follow while encumbered with Kara. With the guards searching in the opposite direction, they could favor speed over stealth, but only to a certain point. 

Once they reached the bridge, they were presented with a problem.

“Damn it,” Dane said. “They’re closing it off.”

This was indeed the case. All the walkways to the main spire were drawbridges, so that if an invading force should take other spires, they could be cut off from the city center where laid all the buildings of state. The guards that remained on the bridge were raising it, pulling a massive winch only usable by those with supernatural strength.

“What do we do?” Clarion said from Dane’s left. Kara was not looking, having buried her face in his scarf long ago.

Dane sighed. “Snipe the guards, run up the side of the bridge and jump the gap, then slide down to freedom.”

Clarion laughed. “Right. If only.” A pause. “Dane, we can’t.”

“Who says?” Dane pulled back his sleeve, undoing the safety on his phantom blade.

“I’m carrying a woman!”

“She’s very small. Malnourished.”

“Dane, listen to me.” Clarion stomped his foot. “Only two people have felt what it’s been like getting this far with me carrying her. If you ask me to get over that bridge the way it is, she and I are both going to die.”

Dane looked at Clarion straight on. “Okay. Then I’ll take her.” He opened his arms and took a step toward them.

Kara made a distressed noise and clung to Clarion tighter.

Clarion glanced down at her and gave Dane an apologetic shrug. “I don’t think that’s going to work.”

Fifer and Trill caught up. “They’re closing the bridge?” Fifer said. “What are we waiting for?”

Dane sighed, hard, through his nose. “Fine. I’ll get down there and operate the winch. You all just move fast.”

“Are you sure?” Trill gave him a once-over. “With your wounds?”

He had honestly been ignoring it, but the slashes Wycliffe had given his arms and ribs pained him a great deal. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll need some cover fire.”

“Out of blades,” Fifer said. “But I can do it up close.”

“No.” Trill shook her head. “Too dangerous. Go with Clare. I’ll cover Dane.” Before Fifer could protest, she leaped off the building onto a lamppost and took aim at one of the guards on the winch.

“Guess we’re going,” Fifer said, and urged Clarion on.

Dane nodded at them and jumped down after Trill, hurtling towards the guards. There were five of them. One of them happened to look up, and Dane saw his eyes bulge behind the helmet before Trill’s phantom blade tore into his neck. He fell, leaking blood.

The other four shouted in alarm, but one of them was occupied with the winch. Three faced Dane as he landed. Two drew blades, and the other lurched upward, his flesh expanding and barreling outward beneath his armor.

Dane drew his sword and deflected the first attack, riposting to direct the guard past him. The next, wielding a short axe, struck downward and entangled his blade. With a throb from his injuries, Dane twisted, bashing the guard in the faceplate with his pommel. 

The hybrid swung and its massive hand hit the guard Dane was engaged with, knocking them out of the way to land hard against the wall of a nearby building. The one behind Dane thrust at him with their sword, which he sloppily dodged, tripping over the one Trill had killed.

With a shout of frustration, the armored guard began their own transformation process, and as Dane tried to interfere, the already active hybrid lunged for him, gnashing its jaws where his sword arm should have been. Its muzzle was scarred, one eye glassy and obscured by an old wound. There was something rotted on its breath.

Dane grimaced and aimed two sword strikes at its limbs, but with frightening agility it avoided them both, swiping with outstretched claws when he left himself open. At the end of his third, most impatient swing, it slashed across his stomach and chest with a clean uppercut that threw him backward into the winch.

The guard operating the winch turned just in time to see a bleeding Dane collide with her and then lost her grip, falling off the bridge. She grabbed Dane’s ankle and held on tight, even as he nearly fell with her. His sword clattered to the ground.

He had both elbows on the edge of the bridge, but two hybrids were now bearing down on him.

“Alright,  _ that _ hurt,” Dane said, spitting blood onto the planks. 

The one-eyed hybrid growled, echoed by its partner, and came at him fast.

Dane pushed down and swung his legs up, shaking his passenger loose and sending the guard flying onto the bridge. She tumbled into the feet of the hybrids, which wasn’t enough to bowl them over, but it bought him time to scramble for his sword.

He vaulted onto the bridge and threw himself forward, grabbing the hilt and scooping it up to level at his opponents. He was too late. One of the hybrids bounded over, drool hanging in the air, and angled its jaws at his throat.

There was a mist of blood. The hybrid froze, pupils dilating violently, and then fell two ways. The top half flipped over Dane and fell off the bridge, into the void. The bottom, steaming, topped with gore and fragments of vertebrae, flopped rather unceremoniously onto the ground.

Trill stood on the other side, half bent, her scimitars held tight in a reverse grip. She breathed out slowly, as was her tendency after a kill. Wolf blood streaked her face.

Dane recovered himself, secured his sword, and stood. He nodded at Trill and hurried to her side. 

Trill nodded back. She turned with him to face the remaining hybrid. It was the tough one with the bad eye. It barked at Trill, loud enough to make Dane’s heart seize, and then looked between them, trying to decide who best to attack first.

Before it could continue the fight on its terms, Dane simply extended his arm and released a phantom blade, aiming for its chest.

The hybrid planted its feet and bent over backwards, letting the blade sail over it and  _ ping _ uselessly off the lamppost behind it.

While it was thus occupied, Trill dashed past Dane and swung at its legs, meeting flesh. One leg was wounded, the other saved by the hybrid’s quick footwork.

It closed its fist and lashed out at Trill, landing a glancing blow to her shoulder. That alone was enough to knock her into the raised section of the bridge, forcing the wind from her lungs.

Dane slid forward inside its raised arm and cut down across its elbow, severing the tendons. With another, last surgical cut, he swung up and through the front of its throat, slicing off the bottom of its jaw.

The hybrid lurched, tried to claw at him with its good arm. Dane jumped back. Left alone, it teetered, spun around, and fell, hitting the planks with a dull crash.

Trill coughed behind him, getting to her feet.

Dane rushed over to her. “Are you alright?”

“Nothing’s broken,” she said. “The winch.”

Studying her a second longer, Dane turned and stepped over the bodies to the winch. It had several spokes he was meant to use to turn it. 

“Are Fifer and Clare in position?” he asked.

Trill said, “They’d better be,” and sheathed her swords. “I’m going back up. Don’t fall behind.” And she was shinnying up the lamppost.

Dane gripped two of the spokes and tested how much weight the winch carried. It was heavy. Very. But he was quite convinced he could turn it. 

Planting his feet, he hauled on the wheel, turning his hips into the direction he pulled. He was physically stronger than your average werewolf on his best day, but this winch had clearly been made with multiple operators in mind, or merely exceptional individuals. Slowly, it began to turn. The bridge began to lower, inching back toward forming one shape.

There were shouts from the levels above them. Someone had seen what he was doing. He clenched his teeth and pulled on.

Shouts continued in the city directly behind him. The search parties were moving out to the perimeter. A single crossbow bolt came down from the spire above, glancing off the far spokes on the winch.

Dane roared and swung around, blood boiling with magic. The winch followed him so suddenly he thought it might break, and the bridge crashed into place, splintering the ends. A clump of black-clothed figures ran out onto it, dodging more crossbow fire.

Bat. He needed to become a bat. He was rubbish at bats, but the situation called for it.

Succumbing to the primal instinct to shapechange, Dane felt his entire body shrink, his arms and fingers lengthen, his nose broaden, and his ears rise above his eyes. At some point he ceased to be Dane and became a bat.

The bat flapped its wings and soared into the air, foregoing the bridge to just fly across the gap itself. It reached the other side and tumbled to the ground, where it became Dane again.

“I hate being a bat,” he groaned, swallowing bile.

He got to his feet and looked around wildly for more guards, but found none. Was it a trap?

“Dane,” said Trill. She was up the road ahead of him now, ushering on a Kara-laden Clarion and Fifer. “Let’s move.”

Dane found his legs and passed them in three long strides, breaking into a run once more to lead the way to Nueleth’s house. His adrenaline was beginning to thin out, and the pain from the several slashes he’d incurred was making him realize how deep they were. Unfortunate that he had no time to address them.

They had to duck away from two patrols before they reached the back alley with the archway. Dane pressed against the wall and banged on Nueleth’s door.

No response.

He sighed and moved in front of the peephole, then banged harder.

The door opened. “Dane,” said Nueleth. “A pleasant surprise. Business or pleasure?”

“Inside,” Dane said. “We brought company.”

Nueleth eyeballed the group and opened the door. He was clearly presenting male today, with a more defined jaw and flatter chest. His hair was longer, however, much like Dane’s.

“Nueleth,” Fifer said. “Been awhile.”

As she made her greeting, Clarion moved Kara carefully through the doorway and set her down, soothing her as best he could. “You’ll be safe here,” he said.

Trill pulled down her face mask. “Can you offer this woman safe passage to wherever you’re going? She needs our own brand of witness protection, and this city isn’t safe.”

Nueleth frowned. “I’m going to need more details. Who is she? What kind of danger is she in? And-” he grinned. “What’s in it for me?”

“You want gold, you’ve got it,” Dane said.

“I’d settle for a favor,” Nueleth shrugged. “But gold’s fine.” He approached Kara and Clarion, giving the latter a wink. “There, now,” he said to Kara. “What’s your name, dear?”

“I’m Kara,” she said, her voice wobbly. “These... _ people _ want you to help me?”

“We found her in a tenement in the Undercity,” Trill said. “She was being boarded in a drug house where we had a hit. She saw Dane’s face. Then she showed up tonight, about to be burned at the stake.”

Kara hid her face in her hands. Dane frowned. It seemed to him Trill was being a little brusque. 

Nueleth touched Kara’s arm, so softly that she didn’t flinch. “Were you using where you were before?”

“Yes,” Kara said. “Kingdom Come." She scratched at her eyes miserably. "I want to kick it.”

Nueleth winced. “Nasty stuff. I think I know someplace you can be safe and taken care of, if you’ll come with me. I’m skipping town tomorrow.”

Kara looked at Clarion with wide eyes. He nodded encouragingly.

“It looks like they can handle this,” Trill said. “Fifer, a word outside. Dane, settle up with Nueleth and join us?”

Dane nodded. Nueleth, who was still speaking softly to Kara, looked up at him. “A favor or coin,” Dane said. “I don’t know if we’ll see each other again, so coin might be safer.”

“I’m not so sure,” Nueleth said. “We’ll both live long lives.”

“At least,” Dane smiled ruefully. “We both intend to.”

Nueleth offered his hand. “Afraid of owing me a favor, Zarovich?”

Dane shook it. “Never. It’s yours. The least I can do.”

With a wink, Nueleth withdrew. “Look me up anyway. Now, both of you get out of my face so I can get poor Kara comfortable.”

Clarion set his hand on Kara’s shoulder and smiled. “Goodbye and good luck,” he said.

Kara sobbed and threw her arms around him, to his surprise. He patted her on the back and returned the embrace, then backed off, waved to Nueleth, and went out the door.

“Kara,” Dane said, bowing his head. “I wish you happiness.”

She gave him a look that was strangely sad. “I fear for you.”

“Dane,” Nueleth said gently. “You must go. You’ve lost-” he did a double take. “Well, how much blood  _ have  _ you lost?”

Dane looked down at himself. “An amount. I’ll be alright.” He straightened awkwardly. “Safe travels.” 

Nueleth watched him as he left. “Safe travels, Dane.”

Trill was pacing when Dane exited into the alleyway. Fifer was watching her, and Clarion was peering out into the street.

“Trill?” Dane asked.

She turned to him. “Something’s not right. There should be far more guards for us to deal with. This spire’s on a skeleton crew. I don’t like it.”

“She’s got a point,” said Clarion.

“What I  _ have  _ is a bad feeling about this,” Trill said. “We need to find Mentor. Now.”

“The covert,” Fifer said. “Should we enter through the Pen?”

“If the road is clear,” Trill said. “But that means going back across the bridge unless we take the back way.”

“We shouldn’t suffer too much on terms of speed,” Clarion said. “I think we should take the back way.”

Trill looked Dane up and down, then dusted off his tunic. “Can you manage with those?”

Dane nodded. “They’re superficial. I’m fine.” They were in fact, not, and he very likely in fact, wasn’t. But, he was the son of Strahd, damn it, and there was no time. He’d be fine.

Doubt crossed Trill’s eyes, but she was too preoccupied to challenge him. “Alright. Back way it is.”

They took a route similar to the one Dane had traveled thrown over Clarion’s shoulder, scaling the outside of the spires to avoid the bridges. Crossing to the central spire led them past the bridge, where the searching guards had spread like termites, torches whipping left and right.

Four battered and beaten Barbaroi stole across the gap, climbing the long ropes and cables slung under the bridge. When they reached the other side, they disappeared into the stonework and hit the roads.

Once again, the path to the Lonely Pen was eerily empty, but overcome with the sense that they were approaching a source of light and noise.

Dane grimaced.

“What is it?” Trill said, at his shoulder.

“That heat,” he said. “Can’t you feel it?”

She shook her head. “We need to hurry.”

They were at most two blocks away when they could clearly see the smoke against the backdrop of shadow and rock.

The Lonely Pen was burning.


	13. Strength (Reversed)

Dane stumbled between burning bookshelves, coughing as smoke billowed around his head. He groped blindly in front of him for Trill. The back of his throat burned, and intense heat licked at his sides.

As soon as his fingers found the back of her tunic, she lurched forward, perhaps unbalanced by his weight, perhaps something else, and the two of them tumbled into open air before falling hard onto stone steps.

Dane managed to protect his head as they landed, but took jarring impacts on his hip and shoulder. Beside him, Trill groaned, more in frustration than pain.

He looked up, his vision swimming. Smoke had begun to fill the underground tunnel from a jagged hole where the secret passage had presumably been blown away. Splinters of wood and stone littered the top of the steps. Some of the torch sconces were askew or broken off completely. A few of the traps had been set off, and there were bodies - those of two Barbaroi, as well as a single Drow, a male helot warrior.

Evidently the sentries had been caught by surprise, and by someone who knew to anticipate their defenses for the most part. 

Clarion and Fifer came staggering out of the smoke, coughing, but on their feet. They took in the scene as Dane helped Trill to her feet. Fifer’s shoulders trembled with rage. The ringing in Dane’s ears had subsided; he now heard the sound of weapons clashing, shouts, screams, and magical discharge below, even over the din of the fire.

“Naurkuroi,” Fifer spat. “She’ll pay for this.”

“How did they find us?” Clarion choked, blinking tears from his eyes. He tried to rub them, but checked himself to avoid pollution by ash.

Trill stood free of Dane. “It doesn’t matter. We know what to do. Find Mentor and flee. Kill any who stand in our way.”

“Almost all of us are wounded,” Dane said. “With the battle already in progress, we should sneak up on those already engaged.”

“Wounded,” Trill said, as if realizing something. “Fifer, Clare, you’re fresh. Find Bax! He’ll need help if he’s alive, and we need him to get through this.”

“What about you?” Clarion said, even as Fifer made to move.

“We’re finding Mentor,” Trill said. “Don’t think of us. Go.”

“We love you both,” said Clarion, and he was after Fifer.

Trill drew her scimitars in a rasp of steel. “We make for Mentor’s chambers.”

Dane drew his own sword. “Right behind you.”

The two of them descended the stairs as quickly as they could without losing balance. They were moving much too loudly, but that hardly mattered with the environment they were headed into. The sounds of battle only got louder as they went deeper, but Dane suspected it was yet beyond the initial receiving hall.

As Trill crested the bottom of the stairs, keeping to one wall, she backpedaled and slammed into him, turning and pressing him against the stones. To his surprise, after a moment of pressure, the wall gave way and the two of them were dumped into a small room. It was only about waist height, so he could not stand up, but he recovered himself enough to see Trill beckoning him to a peephole in the wall.

He crawled on his elbows and turned to her, but she held up a finger to her lips and looked out the opening. Dane followed suit.

The hall was ransacked. Every brazier was overturned, spilling hot coals that still smoldered, scarring the floor. Racks of weapons had been stripped, the arms stacked like kindling against a pillar, the racks broken and piled elsewhere. Magical blasts had left scorch marks, residue, and fragmentation across the pillars.

Three wolves policed the room, along with two helots and a female officer, wearing fine black armor. Bodies were strewn about, a good number of warriors and wolves, and a minority of Barbaroi. Still more Sisters were alive, but bound and huddled on the ground, blood drenching their chins and chests. It appeared they had been mutilated on the spot once captured.

Dane clenched his teeth in rage and sympathy. He recognized several of them.

Another drow emerged from an adjoining passageway. She was also finely armored, but wore no helm, instead, her white hair was pinned back from a striking face with a clasp that resembled the maw of some beast, and a cape and mantle billowed behind her - black and purple, with the glint of silver inlay.

Trill nudged Dane and motioned to a branch off of their tiny room. Peering in, he saw that it ran the whole length of the chamber with peep holes such as this. She wanted to get closer.

He nodded and she crawled in ahead of him after securing her swords.

As they moved, careful not to drag on the rough stone, the drow were speaking loudly enough for them to hear.

“Did you find their leader?” the woman in charge asked in a voice that had callous elegance.

“No, Lady Eperra,” said the officer. “But her bodyguard killed six of our men and barricaded herself in there.” She pointed to the double doors at the end of the hall where Mentor normally held court. “We collapsed some of the roof. She won’t be escaping any other way.”

“That’s Konon she speaks of,” whispered Trill. Dane saw that she had climbed over a body; one of the other Barbaroi had tried to make use of this passage and been struck by some sort of projectile. Trill had been pausing to close their eyes. Dane climbed over them too, wrath still brewing hot in his gut.

“I will question her myself,” said the one called Eperra. “What of the two arrivals that  _ did  _ escape you?”

“She is an inquisitor,” Trill hissed. “Even Konon may break!”

“She knows about Fife and Clare,” Dane hissed back.

The officer stood more firmly at attention, as if anticipating a blow. “They went deeper into the covert, Lady. Our other forces may intercept them, but we can pursue them if you wish.”

“Do that,” Eperra said swiftly. “Cut out both their tongues and geld the male. Leave some to guard this rabble.” With a flick of her cape, she began striding up the stairs to the chamber doors.

The officer saluted and selected two of the wolves. “You, you. With me.” They headed for one of the passages, toward where Clarion and Fifer would have gone after Bax.

Dane had had a long, hard day. His wounds smarted and he’d done more fighting in the last hour than he’d ever done all at once in his life. But despite all this, he felt his hackles rising, his lips pulling back to bare his fangs. 

He wanted to rip their throats out, one by one.

“Now,” he said roughly, “While they’re moving.” He crouched and bounded to the nearest outlet from the passage, where he’d burst through a tapestry and leap onto the helots guarding his future Sisters.

“Wait!” Trill said. “We take her together, after they’re gone!”

“I’m taking her now!” Dane retorted, springing to his full height as he drew his sword, slashing the tapestry open. 

One helot spotted him and paled, diving away, but the other’s neck was caught by Dane’s foot, carrying him to the ground and crushing his windpipe. Dane ignored his comrade and the wolf, fixing his eyes on Lady Eperra, who had whirled around from her place on the stairs. On the other side of the hall, the officer had turned her forces around to see the commotion.

As he sidestepped off the corpse of the helot, Dane tore off his face mask and hissed, red light leaking from his eyes, and dashed for the inquisitor. Behind him, he could hear Trill shouting. “Dane no!  _ No! _ ”

Eperra’s surprise didn’t stop her from leveling a finger at him and loosing a bolt of lightning, which he dodged - but he misjudged its speed; projectiles he could dodge and even deflect, but lightning was near instantaneous. It scored a glancing hit to his chest, knocking him off his feet and sending him rolling. 

Fingers of blue heat flickered around his body, like thousands of poison darts. He growled and kept rolling, getting his feet under him and launching forward into a run again.

Two wolves and the officer were coming on the right. She was first, swinging a short sword for his collar with a heavy overhand strike. Dane riposted, holding his sword in a one-handed grip, and flicked her blade away, drawing back his left hand to punch her in the face. His knuckles screamed, but did not break as a human’s would, and the cheek guard of her helmet crumpled. Her head snapped to the side and she stumbled.

Dane shoved her out of the way, sending her sprawling, and leveled his sword at the approaching wolves, warding them off. Before either of them could reach him, something bright came at him from the left, now Eperra’s direction. He turned, crossing his body with his blade, and parried a spectral javelin that hung in the air, empty blue-white lines only suggesting the weapon but capable of doing very real damage. Sensing a wolf on all fours drawing close, he kicked to the side, catching it in the jaw. The javelin snapped back, returning to hover over Eperra’s head.

Dane was hit from the side, the second wolf tackling him wholesale. The floor smashed into the side of his face, and he forced his sword arm between the wolf’s jaws, bumping his hips and trying to roll it off even as it mauled his chest and belly. The officer and accompanying wolf nearby were recovering, and their reinforcements had to be leaving off guarding the prisoners unless Trill had joined him.

He finally got his knee under the wolf’s ribcage and forced it off, following up with an upward stomp that propelled it into a pillar, where it hit hard and slid to the floor with a whine.

Spitting blood, he got to his feet just as the officer and the wolf he’d kicked were forming up on him. 

There was a whistle and a phantom blade sprouted from the wolf’s neck. The silver and wolfsbane worked quickly; it grabbed the wound and fell limp. The officer’s eyes went from Dane to something behind him, and he spared a glance, frantically strafing to avoid another spectral javelin throw from Eperra.

Trill was doing battle with the two wolves and the remaining helot. She could not capitalize while fighting for her life, but she’d at least managed to disengage enough to kill one of his foes. As he watched, she slashed one from shoulder to hip, wounding it badly, and dashed around a pillar, crying something venomous in elvish and firing another phantom blade at Eperra.

The inquisitor raised a corner of her cape and the blade bounced off it as if meeting hardened steel. “After her!” she shouted. “The dhampir is mine!”

Dane tried to stop the officer as she moved past him to link up with her fellows, but Eperra’s javelin met his sword and held it off, even backing him up a step. The officer, helot, and two wolves pursued Trill, who was off running, leading them deeper into the covert - the opposite way Fifer and Clarion had gone.

The javelin continued to push him back. Dane ran it out until he could plant his feet and then leaned away from a follow-up swipe at his chin. That spell wouldn’t last her more than a minute. Of course, either of them could be dead by then.

He glared up at her. 

“Dane von Zarovich,” she said richly. “Yes, I know your name. You can be in this city unbeknownst to my mistress for only so long.” 

“You’re going to die,” Dane said, and tensed his legs, testing his grip on his sword.

Eperra’s eyes flashed with cruel excitement. “Outstanding.”

Her javelin disappeared and she drew a thin estoc, a blade not dissimilar from his in form, but its make was wicked, its steel black and edges flanged.

Dane leapt. 

Eperra met his sword with hers as he cleared the stairs, sliding backward and assuming a two-handed grip to try and brace herself. As Dane planted his feet and pressed her, raising his free hand and poising clawing nails to strike, she pivoted and slipped away from his sword, loosing a short-range blast of necrotic magic.

Dane held his ground, and as she faced him, held her gaze.  _ That  _ particular spell would do her no good. “Not. Quite. Human. Enough,” he said, and feinted a high swing before charging at her.

His shoulder thrown forward, he’d planned to just send her crashing into the doors and pin her against them, but she knew how to fall and brought him off balance with her. They hit the doors together and there was a high-pitched thunderclap as wards flared around them, dealing damage indiscriminately. Dane cried out as the magical trap seared his body, more painful than the fire or the lightning. 

The spell ended as quickly as it had begun and the doors broke inward, sending both of them flying into the chamber among large splinters and rubble.

Dane felt a dowel-sized piece of wood pierce his shoulder as he rolled, and both Eperra’s and his swords went under them. Her armor would protect her, but he sustained another deep cut below his ribs.

He pushed through it, struggling to his feet and ripping out the splinter of wood as Eperra rose unsteadily. His vision was beginning to fail him. He was concussed and had lost much blood today.

“Dane?” a voice rasped nearby. “Dane!”

His head whipped around. “Konon!”

He had just enough time to spot her - a flash of pink skin marked where she was lying, legs trapped beneath the lower slopes of a pile of rubble. A lightless oil lamp was broken next to her, slivers of glass in her arms. She was caked in blood and soot, but her eyes were alert, and she motioned urgently. “Behind you!”

Dane turned just in time to raise his sword. Eperra’s blade connected with his and she’d thrown her entire weight behind it. As he pushed back, he realized  _ both  _ her hands were on her sword - one on the hilt, one on the blade. She pulled the one hand back, using the point where their swords connected as a fulcrum, and slammed her pommel into his face.

He felt only the impact. It stunned him completely and he lost his balance, dropping his sword. He had only the instinct to cover up and protect himself as Eperra’s next attack, a shoving strike with the edge of her blade, whistled over his head. She was still half-swording; he had a split second before she chose whether to adjust her grip. 

Dane backpedaled, pawing with his weaponless hand. Eperra grabbed his wrist, meaning to pull him in and strike again with her sword. 

“Take her down!” Konon yelled. 

Dane immediately shot in and got his arms under Eperra’s thighs, lifting her off the ground and throwing himself forward to carry her down. She was in armor, but his fell strength prevailed him where a normal grappler’s would not.

Eperra struck at his back with her pommel, but hit only meat. Dane got his knee on her belly and grabbed her sword hand by the wrist, trying to twist it out of her grip. He elbowed her in the face, but she did not loosen her fingers.

Her free hand cupped the side of his face and tried to push him away, but he strove harder, twisting her arm. 

She snarled. Lightning coursed through her hand and into Dane’s skull, filling his nostrils with ozone and flooding his body with heat and pain. He was blinded, light overwhelming his eyes. His jaw dropped, but he could not scream, paralyzed by the current running throughout his entire body.

“No!” Konon shouted, but her voice was distant.

Dane was cast onto the floor and kicked hard in the ribs. He curled up, coughing blood. More blood trickled from his nose and ears.

Eperra stood over him, limping slightly, hand on her side. “You’d make a fine plaything if we had the means to properly restrain you,” she said. “But my queen has ordered your death. I’ll take my time, I think.”

“Leave him!” Konon said savagely. She struggled, trying for what was certainly not the first time to free her legs. There was a sad  _ click _ as she flexed her wrist, only for her phantom blade to come up empty.

“I wonder, will you tell me where your Mentor is if I do?” Eperra turned to her. “Is he worth that much to you?”

Konon only returned a murderous glare, but one of abject defeat.

Eperra laughed. “I thought not.” She kneeled next to Dane, sheathing her sword. Her gauntleted hand tenderly caressed his cheek, and then grabbed his chin hard, forcing him to look at her. “Look at that. Such  _ anger. _ ” She smiled, and he could see the pleasure dancing in her eyes. “Do you hate me?”

“Yes,” Dane croaked through gritted teeth.

She leaned closer, as if to kiss him. “You want to kill me?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” he said, straining forward with fangs bared. Her other hand was planted on his chest, holding him down, and he was too weak to overpower her anymore.

“Do it,” she said. “You can’t. You can do nothing to save yourself.” She turned his head to face Konon, who was watching with a desperate, conflicted expression. Her eyes found Dane’s and spoke to him, but he knew not what she was trying to say. “You can save her. I’ll cut out her tongue and she’ll live, like the others, if you tell me where your Mentor is.”

“I don’t - know,” Dane said. It was the truth. “And if - I - did - I - wouldn’t - tell -”

Eperra struck him then, a hook to the body directly on the new gash beneath his ribs. Then, as the pain reached its peak, she drove a knee into his groin, hard, and kept it there so that he feared his manhood would be crushed. He arched his back and loosed a strangled, pathetic noise.

Eperra laughed. “You sound like a piglet being slaughtered. You kick like one, too.”

“What would your queen say of you being distracted from your work?” Konon said quickly. “Playing like a girl half your age, while her most hated enemy covers more ground every moment?”

Eperra straightened, turning to her. “This  _ is _ my work,” she said, smiling lazily to display her canines. “How quickly I attend to it depends on you, loyal pet.”

“I fail to see how this gets you the information you need,” retorted Konon. “If this is the Inquisition’s best, color me unimpressed.”

Eperra looked down at Dane fondly. “That’s a shame. How long until you  _ are _ impressed, I wonder?” She punched Dane in the face, making something pop in his nose. Then she drew her gauntlet across his cheek by the fingertips, which had been forged like claws.

Dane spat blood onto her breastplate.

Her smile turned feral and her hand locked around his throat. “Yes, good. I  _ so _ wish I could keep you.” She reached into her belt and fingered the hilt of a curved knife. “What’s his best feature, pet? Maybe I’ll start there.” She leaned in teasingly. “I think it’s the eyes.”

“Wait,” Konon said. “Give him a swift and honorable death and I’ll tell you the route of Mentor’s escape.”

“No,” Eperra said, and drew her knife. She jabbed it at Dane’s face and made a small cut across his cheekbone. He flinched, and she cooed, “Oh, would you look at that? I missed.” She brought the knife to her lips and licked the blade carefully, emphasizing her long tongue. “Mmmm…perhaps you vampires are onto something.”

“It will die with me, then,” Konon said. “Or at least my tongue. Kill him as slowly as you want - I hope it’s worth failing your mistress.”

Eperra met her eyes. “You understand, then. I can do whatever I want. The only control you have is how much you sacrifice.” She pressed the flat of her knife against Dane’s lips. “Now. Make a choice. Shall I play with piglet here until he squeals for us again, or are you going to give me your Mentor?”

Konon hung her head. “I will tell you.”

“Coward,” Dane said through a mouthful of blood and bile. “ _ Coward. _ ”

“See, piglet,” Eperra laughed. “She likes you.” She sheathed her knife and stood. “Give me the location,  _ now _ .”

“You must come closer,” Konon said. “If I speak it aloud, my Sisters will be alerted and they will know I give you the truth. They will change their plans and you will find nothing.”

“No,” Eperra said, and rested her boot casually on Dane’s throat. “You cannot bait me, Barbaroi scum. No one eavesdrops on us here, and I am not such a fool as to approach a lucid captive.”

“It is powerful magic; I  _ cannot  _ speak it aloud,” Konon said. “Please, I only wish for you to end his suffering. He does not deserve it.”

Dane struggled to make enough air to speak. “Tell her - nothing -”

Eperra looked down at him, pressing her boot harder. “Quiet, piglet.” She considered Konon, her gaze evaluating. “I will know if you mean to harm me, and you will suffer for it - not before  _ he _ does, but you will.”

“I know,” Konon said. 

Stepping away from Dane, Eperra shook off her limp and stalked over to Konon, kneeling. Dane coughed, gasping in relief, and rolled onto his side facing them. He had been gathering his strength, but he feared it would do little. Eperra was in full armor and she was too alert. Still, he might be able to stop Konon from exposing Mentor if he forced Eperra to kill him outright.

“Tell me,” Eperra said, grabbing Konon by the hair. 

Konon grunted and slammed a rock into Eperra’s face. 

There was a spurt of blood. Eperra fell, clutching the side of her head.

“Dane,” Konon said. “Get up.”

Dane struggled to rise, but his shock had taken over his earlier preparedness. His limbs shook.

“Get. Up.” said Konon as Eperra rose. 

“Assassin bitch!” Eperra drew her knife and threw it at Konon. Konon raised a hand and a burst of flame shot from her palm to the inquisitor’s chest. It knocked her back, and caught her cape and hair on fire. She screamed, fumbling for her sword.

“The lamp,” Konon said. “Now!” She slid the shattered lamp toward him.

Dane forced himself to his feet. He scooped up the lamp, broken glass biting into his palm, and felt that the oil well was still full. With all the strength in his battered arm, he threw it.

What remained of the lamp shattered as it hit Eperra’s armor. There was an unnatural blossom of flame and her whole body was rapidly engulfed as the oil ran and spread, her armor preventing any escape. Wreathed in flame, she staggered toward him, sword raised, but suddenly dropped it and screamed again. The pain was disorienting her. She thrashed where she stood, screamed again.

“Water!” she keened in a voice that almost made him pity her. “Water!”

Dane collapsed, the strength departing his legs.

Eperra seemed taken with madness. She raced out the broken doors and threw herself off the platform, landing out of sight with a heavy noise. If it did not kill her, it must have knocked the wind out of her, because there were no more screams - and no shouts from her fellows, so Trill must have been successful in leading them away.

Blackness crept in around the edges of Dane’s vision. He was going to black out, and if he blacked out, he would not wake up.

“Dane,” Konon was saying. “ _ Dane. _ Crawl to me. We are both bleeding.”

Dane blinked and his vision focused. He saw that, atop Konon’s existing wounds, Eperra’s knife jutted from her chest, above the heart.

“The blade is in my aorta,” Konon said. “If we pull it out, I will die. But I will live as long as it remains where it is.” Her hair had partially come loose from her ever-present bun, and now strands hung in front of her soot-streaked face. Dane began to crawl towards her. “You are not so lucky. You have lost too much blood.”

“I know,” Dane gasped. “So cold…”

“Dane, listen to me,” Konon said. “You must drink. Do you understand? You will heal if you feed. Trill told me this.”

“Have no blood,” Dane said. “No capsules. Inquisitor too far away.”

Konon reached out to him, grabbed his elbow, pulled him closer. “Hurry,” she said, and bared her neck.

“No,” Dane murmured, even as he leaned in. His body moved on its own, driven to survive. “Konon, no.” 

“I will be fine,” she said. “Take what you need from me.”

Dane breathed the scent of her neck, the blood and sweat, the underlying musk. Trill’s scent was on her, long faded, but inescapable. He wondered why he’d never made the connection.

He drew back from her neck and let his eyes rove over her. At her hip, where she emerged from the rubble, there was a small pool of blood. He scented it - hers. 

Dane bent down to the floor and lapped at it, the stone scraping his tongue. The layer of blood was thin, and filled with dust. He licked the floor dry, taking great gulps of scant mouthfuls.

“That will not do,” Konon said. “You are not a dog.”

Dane sat up, sagging. “I don’t need any more,” he said, even as he licked his lips, scrounging for traces of the coppery taste.

“You are a fool to lie.” Konon drew back the collar of her tunic, slipping the sleeve off her shoulder to expose more of her neck, arm and chest. “Stop holding back. You must.”

“No,” Dane said. “I can’t. I-”

“I was wrong to call you an animal,” Konon said, her eyes soft, but her voice hard. “You will not hurt me. Save yourself, and you save us both. Now drink.”

“Konon.” Dane shook his head. “I’m strong enough to get help. I can.”

“You  _ lie. _ ” Konon grabbed the hilt of the knife. “If you do not muster the courage and bite, I will pull this out and you can drink from here as my heart beats its last. Do not make me sacrifice myself for you. I will not hesitate.”

“Stop,” Dane breathed. “Stop.” He slid his hand under Konon’s head to cradle her neck. “I can’t bear it any longer, I’m sorry-” With a fluid, practiced movement, he drew close and dipped his head, feeling his hot breath on her skin. 

“Good” Konon said, shuddering as he sank his fangs into her bare flesh. “That’s it...” Her eyes closed, her lips pressing into a thin line as, he knew, she bore the heady cocktail of pleasure and pain.

Tears pricking at his eyes, Dane’s fangs found her carotid artery and pierced it, rich blood flooding into his mouth. He slurped.

Konon moaned, then caught her breath. She adjusted her neck, staring at him as if to ensure he did not stop.

Dane closed his eyes as he began to weep, and drank.

Konon’s hand found his back and stayed there, steadying him. “Do not stop until you have had enough,” she whispered.

Breathing her in, Dane could feel that he was beginning to lose himself. Konon would grow weaker with every mouthful, and she was already weak. But his energy was returning - her blood was strong, and his natural point of regeneration was coming back. It wasn’t much compared to a true vampire’s, but he was Strahd’s son, and his most superficial wounds were now beginning to close.

He could not take much more. Any more, really. He could feel Konon slipping.

Withdrawing his fangs, he licked the puncture wounds, sealing them with saliva from his  _ concresentia  _ glands. That would coagulate the blood. Where most vampires would use that trick to save Konon for later, Dane was trying to minimize the damage he’d done.

Konon’s breath hitched, but it was as if she did not have the strength to gasp.

“Finished,” Dane said. 

“You lie…” Konon said groggily. “I have more to give…” Her hand closed around his collar and drew him back.

Dane’s head was clearing. “Konon, you’re delirious,” he said. “You lost more initially than we thought. You’re going to need a transfusion.”

Her nose wrinkled. “I do not know that spell.”

“Not a  _ transformation _ , it’s a medical procedure.” Dane grimaced. Clearly his people knew more about blood than most. “You need blood. You’re fading fast.” It was true. Her skin was paling and her pulse was weak.

Konon lurched, a foreign strength forcing her upright into his arms. “Trill and the others?”

“We were separated. I have faith in them, but I don’t know if they’re alive or if they’re coming back for us.”

Konon nodded and let him take her weight. “I will die.”

“No,” Dane said helplessly. 

“I was wrong about you,” she said. “I am sorry.”

“I’m sorry I called you a coward,” Dane said. “Stay with me. Stop saying goodbye.”

Konon laughed. “You fool.”

“There’s -” Dane could not look at her. “There’s a way. You won’t like it.”

Konon froze. “Dane, I must live. There is work I yet must accomplish.” Her limbs shook. “Whatever it is, it does not matter. I have asked much of you, and wronged you, and I will bear it.”

Dane set his jaw. “I must turn you,” he said. “You will become like me. If your mind is weak, a spawn. You will be a slave. If your mind survives, you will be a vampire in full, not a  _ hafu _ like me.”

“What is that word?” her breath was coming ragged.

“Dhampir is your word for what I am.  _ Hafu _ is ours.” He shook her shoulder. “Konon, I need an answer now.”

“I told you I would bear anything,” she said. “This is difficult for you. Why?”

Dane hung his head. “I swore an oath. I would never put someone else through...being me.”

Konon’s eyes were dim, but they colored with understanding. “Yes...that is like you. What will you do?”

“Say the word,” Dane said in a low voice. “Before my heart changes. Please.”

With an exhale, Konon reached up to touch his face. “Do it.”

Dane nodded. “You must drink.” He flexed ancient muscles deep in his chest - muscles he had never used. He knew that he must regurgitate blood for her to drink, blood of a specific type, created for this specific purpose.

“This isn’t a kiss,” he reassured her as he leaned in. “I have to feed you.”

Konon nodded and tilted her head back, parting her lips.

Just before they touched, voices reached Dane’s ears. There was the sound of rocks falling, and footsteps -  _ many  _ footsteps.

He jolted away. “Someone’s coming,” he said.

The voices had found the body of Eperra, the inquisitor. They were low, and...familiar. Good or bad, he wasn’t sure.

“Upstairs,” one of them said. Then, calling: “Dane?”

“Trill,” he and Konon breathed at once.

He turned to her. “You’re saved yet.” And with relief, weakness returned to his bones. He slumped, barely supporting her against his chest and bowed leg. 

Trill, Bax, and some mass of others appeared in the light of the broken doors. “There they are!” Bax called. “Help me, they’re both wounded!”

“I’m fine,” Dane said. “Take her, she’s dying!”

Bax ran to them and laid his hands on Konon, chanting under his breath. Warm emerald light seeped from his body into hers. “It’s bad,” he said in between verses. “But she’s strong. She’ll heal with time.”

Trill reached them, falling to her knees. Konon made an urgent noise and reached for her, and Trill took her hand, kissing it and clutching it to her breast. She turned to Dane and embraced him. “You fool,” she said, voice cracking. “You fool, you fool…” She kissed his hair and cried.

“Fifer,” Dane said. “Clare?”

“With Mentor,” Trill said. “They’re alive.” She rocked him back and forth, though who she was comforting was unclear. 

“I’m sorry,” said Dane. 

Konon stirred. “How many of us left?”

Trill paused, closed her eyes. Breathed out. Opened them again.

“Enough.”


	14. The High Priestess (Reversed)

Dane dreamed.

A breathtaking young woman with burnished bronze flesh bathed in a spring. She wore a ruby necklace upon her breast that glowed with fiery light. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence, and yet she seemed oblivious to her surroundings, lost in the moment and completely enjoying the warm spring.

She stretched out, eyes closed in pleasure, but then seemed to notice him - and bared her teeth. They were fanged and feral, and her eyes bled red as she lunged for him.

He awoke in a cold sweat.

His surroundings were only slightly unfamiliar. He’d already awoken before, long enough to be informed that he and the wounded Barbaroi had been moved outside the city. This was a place called the Grove of the Six, a hidden cavern where healing-houses were kept by a small but dedicated order of clerics to good-aligned gods like Pelor, Alathia, and Luthic.

Dane had been interred here for a number of days already and was told Naurkuroi’s forces would not find them here. Mentor was supposedly also present, but he was not allowed to leave his lodgings and had not received a visit from her, only Trill, who reportedly had stopped by to sit with him while he slept.

Now the room was dim, cool dayglow coming in through wide, curtained windows, and warm lanterns only lighting the bare minimum in far-flung corners. Gently trickling waterfalls outside provided white noise. The room was long and airy, with many beds lined up along one wall. The bed to Dane’s left was empty, but beyond and to his right were occupied - obscured with rattan dividers that gave each patient privacy. 

He had made an attempt to speak with the woman on his right while they were both awake once before, while they were preparing to be washed by the clerics. She was a drow with flaxen hair that glowed like gold and was likely dyed. But her tongue had been recently cut and his conciliatory greetings only frustrated her. Since then her divider had been up and he had not seen her. 

He sat up in bed and adjusted the white penitent’s shift he’d been dressed in. It wasn’t altogether uncomfortable, but it filled him with a sort of guilty irony. Surely the clerics who cared for him knew he was a dhampir and thus descended from devils, but they had shown him no prejudice. 

Given the proper time and rest, he’d begun to truly regenerate. It wasn’t as good as if he’d been able to bury himself, but he was beginning to think being in the Underdark meant he was underground by default and accelerated the natural processes somewhat. He cursed himself for never asking his father or even Jander for more information.

His wounds from Kara’s rescue were fast fading, although they had hampered him a great deal during the fight in the covert. All that remained were a few white lines where Wycliffe and another wolf had slashed his ribs and torso, which would be gone with time, of course.

Eperra and her retinue, however, had done him far worse and more recently. The clerics had bandaged his sword arm from the hand to the elbow. He’d abused it sorely, taking a wolf’s bite and employing various unarmed strikes to Eperra’s helmet. His chest and left shoulder were similarly bound where he’d been slashed, burned with lightning, and caught wooden shrapnel. His broken nose and the burns on his face had healed early on, but his windpipe was still sore and he found speaking taxing.

The worst to overcome had apparently been the nerve damage from the door wards on Mentor’s chamber and a pommel strike from Eperra that had caused his brain, already concussed, to hemorrhage. Fortunately, Konon had been nearby and provided him a source of food to kick-start his regeneration. 

_ Konon. _Dane had no idea how to move forward with what had transpired between them. Their relationship had been one of suspicion, distrust and outright violence, but he felt as if a peculiar intimacy had passed between them. It was the side effects of the bite, most likely, but he’d also shown her a part of himself he’d shown no one else. 

After all, he’d almost broken his oath to save her. And while the very idea was abhorrent to him and he was relieved an alternative had presented itself...he felt hollow. There had been a certain hope in knowing someone could share his burden.

He shook his head, trying to clear away the thoughts. No. However uncorrupted Konon may appear, there was no telling what vampirism may have done to her. Jander had been a cleric of Pelor once, and still was morally decent as far as Dane knew, but few survived the transition with their ethics intact. Power and cravings combined were a fantastic lure to the realm of evil.

A soft footstep, the sound of shifting fabric. Dane and his fellow patients were not alone. He looked up, eyes widening in surprise to see his thoughts given form.

Konon approached from the doorway, moving with methodical steps in his direction. As their eyes met, she said nothing, but continued until she reached the foot of his bed.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

Dane smiled ruefully. It was as if he’d summoned her with his pathetic angst. “It’s still a little hard for me, but I’ll listen more than I speak.”

“I understand.” She studied him. Clearly the clerics had been able to work on her faster than him, because apart from some unsteadiness in her legs and lingering bandages where Eperra’s knife had struck she was the same as ever. Her usual garb had been destroyed, however, and she was not dressed for combat, but in breeches, sandals and a sleeveless tunic for the warmth of the cavern. Her hair was in a braid down her shoulder.

“Your wounds still trouble you?” she said, more out of courtesy than true curiosity. She already knew how far along he was, he was sure of that.

“They’re fine,” he said. “How are the others?”

“Fifer and Clarion are anxious to visit you, but bedridden like yourself. My own cell sustained near-mortal injuries, but were personally saved by Mentor as they escorted her out.” She shifted her weight, crossing her arms. “Trill is largely unharmed.”

Dane watched as she rubbed the outside of her arm with finger and thumb. It wasn’t like her to show such an obvious tell. Something had happened between her and Trill since the attack. He felt an odd mix of relief and jealousy, although he wasn’t sure on whose behalf.

“Can you think clearly?” Konon asked bluntly.

He paused. “Yes?”

“As can I.” She drew closer. “Your oath. See that you don’t break it again.”

“I didn’t break it,” Dane said with sudden intensity that surprised even himself. Anger rose in the pit of his belly. “I never had to.”

“You were prepared to,” Konon said. “And I influenced you. I regret it and I will strive to overcome my weakness, but you must do the same.” She held his gaze, kept him from looking away in that way she had. “Especially when the one you would break it to save has only ever treated you poorly.”

Dane massaged his throat. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Speaking so frankly about how you’ve treated me. Acting like it’s your fault alone that-” _ that I almost drained you twice. _Dane couldn’t finish. He started again. “You were prepared to sacrifice for me, when as you yourself say, you never trusted me to begin with. And now you’re lecturing me for trying to save you, so you can what? Preserve my honor?”

“Your honor would have been only the first casualty,” Konon said. “You were right to keep it a last resort and you should not entertain such thoughts again.”

Dane pinched his nose, something he enjoyed being able to do again now that it had healed. “I get that you’re trying to help me, I think. I don’t need you to tell me that creating more vampires would be bad. That’s why I took the oath in the first place. I just…”

“Your body moved on its own.” she said. “I know.”

He huffed, turned away. “You don’t know anything.”

For a moment, they were both silent.

“Tell me something,” Konon said. “Will these fade?”

Dane looked back at her. She had lifted some of her hair to expose her _ amantes _, the paired puncture wounds left by his fangs. They were stark against the bright pink of her skin.

He softened. “Here,” he said, extending his hand. Konon closed the distance and he prodded them, ignoring the sheen of sweat and how thickly she smelled of Trill. He had drunk deep, but not _ too _ deep, not deep enough to cause the White Fever or to knock her out. 

“If I’d turned you they’d have stayed,” he said finally. “Forever. I think they’ve already begun to go away, though. You were very lucky.” Removing his hand, he fought the impulse to lick his fingers, and the secondary impulse to cradle it as if he’d been burned. 

“I see,” Konon said. She turned to him. “And you?”

He looked away hurriedly. “If you want to be helpful, I need blood. Everything the old man sent me is gone, and I can’t hunt here. Even if I wanted to, the priests would catch me.”

“Right now?” she hesitated. “I doubt either of us is-”

Dane started. “Not from you!” he said loudly, then dropped to a whisper, eyes flicking to the side as another patient shifted in bed. “I didn’t mean you. Just send word to Sunstar and he’ll send more blood for me. Mentor knows how to reach him.”

Konon nodded. “Very well. I will speak to her.” She made to leave.

“Wait.” Dane’s words stopped her halfway to the door. He moistened his lips. “Why do you hate me?”

She turned, but not enough for him to see her face. “I do not.” 

And she was gone.

Dane saw no one but the clerics until the next day.

That morning, he was surprised by an active, unwounded Barbaroi he did not recognize, who approached his bed and said in a low voice, “Mentor wants to see you.”

Looking down at himself, Dane didn’t really see a way to get presentable, but it didn’t seem he was being given much time. He sighed, braced on the bed and stiffly rose, feeling the aches in his forearms and thighs. 

The Sister went before him, leading him through the halls. They were partially open-air, exposed to the dry warmth of the cavern and the cocoon of sound that was the water surrounding it. Clerics went by in twos and threes, and rarely, the occasional paladin, stationed there to protect those among the clergy who could not well fend for themselves. 

The clerics had treated Dane with professional courtesy, but the paladins were another matter. _ That _ crowd kept him under watchful eye. However, since he had a Barbaroi escort, none of them saw fit to tag along.

He was led into a small, isolated room with no windows. It was dim, and a stone plinth with a basin of faintly glowing liquid sat in the center. As Dane entered, the Sister leading him bowed and exited, shutting the door behind him.

Dane hesitated, and then stepped forward into the near-darkness.

The basin illuminated three people - Trill, Mentor, and Konon. Trill and Mentor acknowledged him; Konon did not. Trill’s expression told him they would speak later. Mentor commanded his immediate attention.

He did spare a second to study Trill further. She looked alright, if tired, and there were bluish bags under her eyes. Her hair was especially curly and hung down her back untamed.

Mentor was as severe and exotic as ever. She appeared uninjured, but something in her bearing and movement seemed pained, as if she physically felt the loss of her disciples. Nonetheless, her piercing eyes fixed Dane with their old authority.

“Dane von Zarovich,” she said. “It has been some time.”

“Mentor.” Dane inclined his head. “I am glad to see you are well.”

“Better than half a hundred of our best, or even you,” she said. “Your wounds were serious. Incurred, I am told, after risking exposure in an unplanned attack, and soon after disobeying your commander and sponsor.”

Dane kept his head low. He tried to see Trill’s expression out of the corner of his eye, but found he could not. 

Mentor paused, letting him feel the weight of her evaluation. It made him wonder if he should make his excuses or simply apologize, but he thought better of it.

“And yet your actions bought time and saved many dear to me,” she continued. “Not least of all Konon, and yourself. For that, and your clear shame and suffering in your injuries, you are forgiven by this order.”

Now it felt appropriate to speak. “Thank you, Mentor,” he said, and looked up at her.

She held up a finger, fluid, casual, imperious. “Do not do so again.” Her voice now carried a note of true warning. 

“Yes, Mentor,” said Dane. 

Mentor motioned at Trill with her head. At her cue, Trill came round the basin to Dane.

She put her hand on his good shoulder. “How are you holding up?” 

“I’m fine,” he said. It was more an overestimation than a lie. It mattered little, he would still be ready for even open combat faster than anyone else here.

Trill looked askance at Mentor and Konon and then met Dane’s eyes. “Don’t disobey me like that again, are we clear? If I tell you to wait, _ wait. _” 

Dane looked down. “Of course.” 

Seeming to relax, Trill rubbed his shoulder. “Good. Now, we have something else to talk about.”

The two of them went to the basin. Once, Dane would have had to swallow his pride consistently to show Mentor and Trill the submission they were due. By now, however, he was beginning to get a grasp on Underdark social roles. The Barbaroi did not follow the misandry and cruelty of the old ways, but matriarchy was still intact. Trill, and to a greater extent, Mentor, were owed a certain amount of respect for their experience and rank. 

It no longer felt wrong to him to show them that respect.

“We have contacted your benefactor Jander Sunstar,” Mentor said. “He has agreed to send a supply of preserved humanoid blood on which you may feed.”

Dane suppressed the instinct to glance at Konon, who had been nearly motionless so far.

“However,” Mentor said. “He has a message for you: This time, there will be less. You must hunt on your own to make up the difference. Do so without turning or killing.”

It took a second for the words to make their impact. There was a rushing sound and Dane’s ears rang, his heart beating uncomfortably fast. _ Why? _ What possessed the old man to do this _ now? _ Dane couldn’t...he wasn’t…

“Dane?” Trill said in his ear.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“I trust,” Mentor said, watching him carefully. “That I need not say you will not be feeding among your future Sisters.”

Now it was almost painful to keep from looking at Konon. Dane wondered how much she had told Mentor.

“No,” he said. 

“Good.” She straightened. “I must know what you plan to do.”

Dane struggled. He could not explain that he didn’t want this. There was a solution that came readily to him, but it was one with which he was both dissatisfied and reluctant.

“I can feed in combat, albeit briefly,” he said haltingly. “Although the blood of our enemies, especially werewolves, is often disagreeable. I can also feed from livestock, with similar...dietary complications.”

Mentor raised an eyebrow.

“There are many people in the city who present me with options as well,” Dane said. “My only concern is if feeding on them - shallowly, so as not to hurt them - might violate the creed.”

Mentor waited.

“I will not force you to use your body’s needs as punishment for the unsavory,” she said. “You may feed on the innocent. Carefully. And ensure they are not affiliated with the Sisterhood lest you compromise their ability to be of use to us.”

Dane did not know if he wanted to thank her, so he simply nodded.

“Use your pheromones if possible,” Trill suggested. “Try to keep violence out of it.”

“Yes, thank you,” he said dryly. Perhaps more dryly than he’d intended. _ That _got a reaction out of Konon, and Mentor seemed surprised, too, though she hid it well. He did not look to see if Trill was offended or hurt. “May I go?”

“You presume much to dismiss yourself,” Mentor said, bemused. “But our discussion is concluded. Go and rest.”

Dane turned, felt in front of him for the door, and pushed it open, leaving the suffocating darkness for the lit warmth of the hallway.

He exhaled. 

Anger welled back up in him, furious and sweeping. Damn the old man and his fool tests! He was not to be rationed and toyed with like a sniffling page, he was the son of Strahd!

The disowned, vagabond, self-exiled son of the hated and corrupt Strahd.

Sometimes Dane wondered why he even had pride.

The door opened behind him and his anger and self-reflection dissipated, leaving behind only exhaustion.

“Dane,” Trill said, sounding like her usual self more than she ever did in front of Mentor.

He turned, ashamed and not wanting to behold her sympathy.

She touched his face. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he said again, but his voice cracked a little.

Trill drew him to her and embraced him, hands pressed flat against his back. “I’m glad you’re alive,” she said, voice muffled.

“Half alive,” Dane said. “Half undead.”

She leaned back. “Now, what’s gotten into you?”

“It’s…” he grasped at the words. Not now, not here. Not in the hallway. And not to Trill. Maybe not ever. “It’s really nothing. I’m just tired. Hurting.” He rubbed his eyes. “I should be thanking you. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Trill kept her hands on him, soothing the way she did with Clarion and Fifer. And Dane liked it, much as her scent reminded him of other things.

“I have to assume you covered for me with Mentor,” he said. “I expected her to be a lot...harsher with me.”

“Oh, no,” Trill said. “She wouldn’t let me defend you. It was Konon who vouched for you.”

Dane froze. He looked back toward the door, and took a deep breath. 

“What is it?”

There it was. Konon’s scent was on her, too. And what had passed between them - a _few _times recently - was now unmistakable.

His first instinct was congratulatory, but he felt that inappropriate and not entirely honest.

“It’s nothing,” he said. It was getting old saying that. He could tell Trill was tired of hearing it, too. “Just surprised.” He placed a hand on hers. “Look, I’m tired. I need to sleep, can we talk later?”

Trill watched him with a peculiar look for a long moment. “Alright,” she said softly. “Rest well.”

Dane smiled weakly and turned away, taking slow, heavy steps.

He could feel her watching him go.


	15. Temperance (Reversed)

Dane was roused from another vivid dream, this time one that he could not recall. However, the subject matter was made _ abundantly _ clear by the... _ morning affliction _that tented the sheets above his loins.

And as luck would have it, he wasn’t alone.

He became fully awake with a start as he beheld his visitor. It was the woman from the next cot, the drow with luminous golden hair. It popped against her charcoal-colored skin. She seemed to be in a better mood than he’d met her last, greeting him with a wave and a cheeky, close-mouthed smile.

Dane scrambled to draw his knees to his chest and tamp down his lap without giving it away, but the woman’s silent laughter made it clear she’d seen all she needed to see. Well, it wasn’t laughter, really. She closed her eyes, tilted her head, and made a series of hand gestures that, combined with her shoulders and chest shaking, communicated her amusement.

Most of the Voiceless spoke to their Sisters with a form of sign language. Clarion had taught Dane some of it, but he wasn’t very good.

He drew his body and the sheets close and returned her look with equal parts embarrassment and reproach. “Can I help you?”

The woman held up her palms and shook her head, still smiling, but as if to say voyeurism had not been her intent. She waved again and pointed to him.

“...hello,” Dane said. “Are you...trying to get off on the right foot?”

She beamed and approached his bed, quicker than he was prepared for. She was still wearing the shift the clinic had dressed her in, but her hair and skin had gotten much of what must have been their former luster back. To his surprise, her eyes were gold as well. Most pressing was the fact that her shift, while loose and not designed to be visually provocative, was both altogether too short and hugged her lithe body at crucial junctures.

She pressed her hand to his chest and made three shapes. He realized she was spelling her name in elvish.

“Aya,” he said. 

She nodded expectantly.

“...It’s nice to meet you,” he said, and for some reason it was at this moment that the fatigue and the need to drink really hit him. It wasn’t a lustful or dangerous feeling. It was a hopeless one, the kind that made him tremble, like he really did belong in a place like this. “I’m Dane.”

Aya nodded, spelling his name against his chest, too, and then backing off a pace. Apparently he was known to her.

Dane was not sure how to proceed. “Are you-”

Before he could finish, Aya propped a finger against her chin and opened her mouth, sticking out her tongue. While shorter than normal, it was not the mangled horror he expected to see - instead, it was neatly healed and styled into a blunt forked shape. 

He was speechless. For some reason, heat rushed to his face.

Mirth came into Aya’s eyes. She wiggled her tongue a bit more and then closed her mouth, signing for laughter again. This was followed by a few more signs, which he did not fully understand, but interpreted as her asking him if he liked it.

“It suits you,” he said, and smiled, finally finding the good humor in the situation.

Aya returned his smile. She really did look lovely when not weighed down with sadness and pain. Still, this must have been the way she chose to cope - it didn’t mean everything was no longer difficult for her.

One of the clerics softly greeted Aya from behind and announced that it was time for her bath. Aya acknowledged her and turned back to Dane, giving him a silent goodbye and a wink before disappearing around the divider.

Once she was gone, his body began to calm. 

Another cleric came around to escort him to a place where he could bathe as well. Dane swung his legs off the cot, stepped into the simple slippers the Grove provided and followed him through the walkways until they reached an unobtrusive door that led into a sizeable pool. The cleric waited outside.

Dane entered, as he’d done only a few times now, and disrobed, stepping into the water. Its warmth only encouraged him to relax and let his guard down, but he could do that now. He was alone.

The last time he’d done that was with Nueleth, by virtue of alcohol and afterglow. Before that...it had been the night he’d killed-

He swallowed bile and willed his thoughts to go down with it.

He wished he’d been able to do this with Trill. She’d tried to soothe him, maybe he could have let her continue, pet him to sleep like he’d seen her do with Clarion and Fifer. He might actually get some decent rest.

Then again, considering the state he was constantly waking up in, maybe it was best he continue to not let her get too close.

The problem was, she was noticing, and it seemed like it was starting to hurt her feelings.

Dane froze. What kind of conceited drivel was that? Trill didn’t need anything from him. And they both should like it that way. 

He ducked his head into the water and came up, flinging droplets across the surface in front of him.

The cave was halfway open-air, part of a line of such pools that continued along this side of the main structure. The sturdy wooden barriers that separated the pools were enchanted so that they couldn’t be climbed over.

Not that he’d tried. His first bath alone, the paladins shadowing him had lectured him on ‘trying anything funny.’

He washed himself quickly with what was provided, then sank to his haunches and sat in the water. Thankfully, there was no one waiting, so he could sit and wish he was somewhere else for a while.

It was odd, but he was beginning to long for Barovia. His life there had been unhappy, but he hadn’t known it. Everything had been simpler. He’d lost many people, and all that was familiar. Now, he was in a strange place with strange colors and stranger individuals, who all seemed to either want something from him or despise him.

He did trust Trill, Fifer and Clarion, to a degree. _ Them _ he could trust, at least, to be themselves. What that entailed depended on the circumstances. 

He didn’t trust Mentor, but she had the interests of the Order in mind. It wasn’t personal that she not put him first.

And now, apparently, although it had been a gamble, he couldn’t trust Sunstar either.

He rubbed water on his face.

Then there was Konon. She was...complicated. But as long as they wanted the same thing, she was on his side, in a way.

He stood, water cascading off his skin, and stepped out of the pool. 

The clothes set out for him were not the white robes he had been wearing, but more familiar Barbaroi garb this time. It seemed Trill wanted him mission ready. That suited Dane just fine. If he was going to be constantly surrounded by beautiful women, he preferred they be the ones he was used to dealing with.

Once he was dressed, he opened the door and stepped outside only to be attacked from both sides. Fifer threw her arms around his neck from the left, and Clarion hugged him around the waist on the right.

“Cla-Fife-_ oof! _” Dane staggered. “My hair’s still wet, you two!”

“We don’t care,” Fifer mumbled. She already had a face full of his, admittedly, more _ damp _ than wet hair. 

“We couldn’t come to see you because we had some very important preparations to make for our next mission,” Clarion said. “We wanted to come sooner.”

“Alright, alright,” Dane said, awkwardly patting them on the arms and nudging this way and that. “I’m fine, you can get off now.”

Fifer backed off and punched him in the shoulder. “Arsehole,” she said, sniffling. 

Dane rubbed his shoulder. “That’s the bad one, you know.” He broke into a grin. “Did you just shed a tear over me?”

“You want me to hit you again?” She held up her fist.

Clarion kept his arm around Dane’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t tease her. We just got you back, after all. Then again, maybe you’ve grown accustomed to nurses fawning over you!"

“That’s the last thing I need, believe me.” Dane stayed still just long enough that Clarion wouldn’t be offended and then extricated himself. “Where are they keeping my sword? My blades?”

“Trill has them,” Clarion said. “Follow us. We’re going to hunt down some mushrooms with ears.”

“Well, the person who _ grew _ the mushrooms with ears,” Fifer said. “The mushrooms themselves are probably in every nook, cranny and crack in the wall back at the covert.”

“That’s how Naurkuroi knew our movements,” Clarion said. “She was smart, though - didn’t interfere enough for us to catch on. Just waited and set a trap.”

“You’ve lost me,” Dane said as they walked. “Mushrooms with _ ears? _ Wouldn’t anything enchanted be caught by our wards?”

“That’s the thing,” Clarion said. “They’re not magical. They were literally grown with ears, and the roots connect them all so the sound reaches these special listeners Naurkuroi’s been using-”

“We tracked down one, questioned him, and killed him,” Fifer said bluntly. “That’s how we know all this.”

Dane shook his head. “_ Eared mushrooms _nearly brought down the entire - it’s-”

“Stupid?” Fifer submitted.

“I was going to say unorthodox, but stupid works,” Dane muttered.

“What’s worse, the stupid plan or the idiots who fall for it?” Clarion shrugged.

“It’s probably best if no one answers that,” said Trill, stepping out from an alcove. Clarion and Fifer had led him to an empty hallway where she’d apparently been waiting.

On their approach, she held out two slender objects, one long and one short - Dane’s sword and phantom blade, both cleaned and repaired. 

He took them, thinking to take pains not to touch her accidentally, but she pressed them to his hands insistently, bare skin brushing with his.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. “Still tired? Any pain?”

“Running hot,” Dane said. “I could use a good hunt.” 

She smiled. “That’s what I like to hear.” 

* * *

“Dane, wake up,” Fifer said. ‘We’re almost there.”

Dane opened his eyes. He was in the back of a gondola with Fifer, and Trill and Clarion were seated ahead of them. They glided along the black water of the Morik river, a connecting body of several water tables that continued for leagues between Dhikaniye and Frigost. Given that he hadn’t been awakened until now, he assumed that no water-dwelling horrors had waylaid them yet.

At the head of the gondola was their guide, Murkle, who was something called a derro. He resembled a svirfneblin, if hairier, wirier, and more crazed-looking, and never spoke - or indeed seemed to do anything at all except pole the gondola along the river, a feat that should have been beyond someone his size. 

They had at some point left the main river and were now several miles down a large offshoot, which featured many twists, turns and forks. As Dane watched, sitting in silence with his companions, a small degree of ambient light began to show itself from somewhere ahead.

“This is the place,” Trill said. “It’s where our target lives. We’ll get a little closer and then disembark.”

Murkle advanced the gondola until both a stretch of rocky shore and a small, painstakingly concealed hut were in view. He stopped, holding his pole aloft and never taking his eyes off what was in front of him. 

“Not exactly the hunt I was hoping for,” Dane muttered as they clambered out onto the rocks. He’d sipped some blood for this, but it had mostly been a relaxing boat ride and their target was a noncombatant slated for capture.

Trill chuckled. “Maybe I should have let you go with Fifer and Clare.”

“I do see the irony in participating in torture for information,” Dane said. “But after meeting that Inquisitor I suspect I’d find it distasteful.”

“It’s a form of self-expression,” Trill said. “And like any other, there are good artists and bad ones. Those that are frugal and those that are...obnoxious.”

Dane cast a glance at her. It wasn’t that her words fazed or scandalized him, but he hadn’t necessarily expected them coming from _ her _. 

Trill’s mask shifted in that subtle smirk of hers. Either she’d noticed his look or she was holding back something she found amusing.

Clarion and Fifer had approached the hut. “Naurkruoi hasn’t given him any guards or defenses,” Fifer said. “Guess she had no more use for him.”

“How loud of a knock do we want?” Clarion asked.

Trill met Dane’s eyes and then turned back to him. “Dane’s bored, so why don’t you kick in the door?”

“Hold on, I never said-”

Clarion raised his knee and stomped forward on the door’s handle, breaking whatever was in place to keep it closed and folding it inward. There was a clattering noise and the sound of breaking glass and ceramics further into the hut, followed by a hoarse attempt at a shout.

“No! No! I have nothing of value! How did you find this place? Leave me be!” 

Clarion stepped aside and looked at Dane expectantly.

“I-I’m armed! A legion of djinn waits at my command! Only be off and I shall spare you their wrath!”

Dane looked at Trill. She motioned to the hut. He sighed.

“Really, you’ve made me destroy my instruments! Weeks of research! Take pity on an old man!”

Dane walked to the threshold and stepped over the ruins of the door.

The hut was full of alchemist’s paraphernalia, a good deal of which was indeed broken. Dried lichen and mushrooms hung off the walls and shattered crucibles and beakers littered the floor. Cowering behind a sturdy table was a half-elf man, balding, frail, holding a rather pathetic excuse for a wand at him with shaking, liver-spotted hands.

“Stay back, I warn you!”

Dane pinched the bridge of his nose. He could already feel a headache coming on. 

A red spasm of magic left the tip of the old man’s wand. It zigzagged toward Dane’s head sluggishly. 

He leaned to the side and it disappeared over his shoulder.

“Is this your idea of a joke?” he said to Trill. “I feel like we’d be better off brewing him some tea than beating him unconscious.”

“We won’t be doing either of those,” she said. “Restrain him, please, but don’t damage him.”

Dane walked toward the half-elf menacingly, and saw his quarry’s will to resist evaporate as he drew closer. The poor old bastard was shaking so hard he couldn’t hold his wand, stammering through one long gasp.

Stepping over the table, Dane disarmed him cleanly, grabbing his wrist and flinging the wand free with the knife edge of his other hand. He then yanked the man to his feet, twisted him around, and let go, shoving him towards the door, before grabbing him under the armpits. 

“Physician Filvarel Umeberos,” Trill said, entering the ruined hut. “I’m going to put you to sleep.”

She strode forward, put her hand on Umeberos’s forehead, and softly spoke in elvish. His eyes rolled back and he slumped pliably in Dane’s unforgiving embrace. 

“Bring him to the boat,” Trill said, and beckoned him out as she went back out through the door.

Dane looked at his slumbering charge, sighed, and slung him over his shoulder. Definitely not the hunt he’d imagined.

Clarion and Fifer were helping Murkle unmoor the gondola as Trill got in. Dane unlimbered Umeberos and maneuvered him into some empty space, setting him down carefully.

“Quite the lordly pout you’ve got there,” Fifer said, snorting.

“Cheer up, Dane!” Clarion added. “If you weren’t here, I’d be the one dogging the goods. Think of all the trouble you’ve saved me!”

Dane’s nose twitched, his eyes narrowed. “Did you say _ dog? _”

Clarion edged backward in his seat, hands raised in placation, but still wearing a good-natured smile.

“Alright, enough,” Trill said. “We need to get moving.” She nodded to Murkle, who grimly began poling them out of the flooded tunnels and toward the main body of the river.

Dane hadn’t been awake for most of the trip coming in, so the ominous sounds of the aquatic Underdark were largely new to him. Bioluminescence still pockmarked the walls, but reflected off the surface of the water as if it were black oil. This deep beneath the earth, it possessed unknowable depth and volume.

The strange noises were almost constant, and ranged from simple echoes - dripping, splashing, waves crashing - to sounds that could only be wings, scales scraping against rock, or gurgling and other unpleasant wildlife ambience. It was almost impossible to gauge distance. 

It was a relief when the gondola exited the claustrophobic network of tunnels, but it presented a new problem.

Lights now hovered over the water, pale and mote, undulating in a pattern both unnerving and hypnotizing.

“Will o’the wisps,” Trill said. “Keep your eyes down.” 

Dane didn’t let his gaze linger. There were Will o’the wisps in the Shadowfell, too, and he well knew that they could blind an unwary traveler to the precipice of death.

More lights appeared ahead, far away, warmer and moving more predictably - searching. At the front of the boat, Murkle grunted.

“I see them,” Trill said. She looked back. “We’re changing course. Naurkuroi’s got boats out on the water.” 

“Damn,” Fifer said. “Did someone tip her off?”

“More likely she’s searching everywhere she can for signs of where we’re holed up,” Clarion suggested. “Might be time to move house soon.”

“Mentor’s working on it,” Trill said. “That’s why we’re here.”

Dane felt the gondola turn. He spared a glance for the physician Umeberos, who had not stirred and was now snoring into the deckboards.

The mouth of a connecting cavern loomed ahead, but instead of leading into more tunnels, it simply continued into another massive open space, this one devoid of other watercraft. It was, however, especially bright by Underdark standards.

Murkle muttered something unintelligible in any language, and stomped his foot.

“He doesn’t like going this way,” Trill explained, then paused. “Oh. That’s interesting.”

She reached behind her into a pouch that hung from the inside of the hull and retrieved something, holding it out to Dane and the others. 

“Get some wax for your ears,” she said. “Quickly now.”

“What is this?” Dane said, even as Clarion and Fifer complied without question.

“You’ve heard of Sirens, yes?” Trill said, stooping to force some into Umeberos’s ears as well. “We’re going to pass by something similar. A Lumiren. Just think a Siren crossed with an octopus and an angler fish.”

“Beautiful woman with lots of tentacles,” Dane said. “Got it. And we have to plug our ears because, like a Siren, this one sings?” He took some wax.

“Precisely,” Trill said.

The wax dulled his ears, but he still heard Fifer speak. “There’s wax enough for you, too Trill.”

Trill smirked. “Oh, I think I have to hear this at least once. Leader’s prerogative.” She offered Dane her wrists. 

He returned her gaze blankly. 

“I might succumb,” she explained. “Bind me so I can’t dive to my watery death?”

“You’d die happy, I hear,” Fifer said. 

“Blech!” Clarion elbowed her. “Who wants to - with _ that? _ Tentacles, Fifer! Eight of them!”

“So?” Fifer said. “Seven-”

“Let me know if that’s too tight,” Dane said quickly, looping some rope around Trill’s wrists and securing it as much as he dared.

“Feels good,” Trill said. “I’ll need my ankles done, too, I think.” She swung them into Dane’s lap.

He arched an eyebrow. “You realize if you do go over somehow, you won’t be able to swim.”

“Then you’d better tie me tight,” she said, and winked.

If there was one involuntary reaction he couldn’t control through training alone, it was how often his pale skin flushed red. Dane decided the relative darkness of the cavern spared him, and rigged Trill’s ankles without further complaint.

Murkle grunted insistently.

“We’re coming up on it now,” Trill said. She squirmed to try and get deeper in the hull, bumping into Umeberos. Suddenly, she froze, her pupils blowing wide and glazing over.

Though he couldn’t hear what she heard, a strange tone reached Dane’s ears, and he realized that his hearing was much better than that of the others and as such the wax couldn’t hide everything from him.

The Lumiren’s song had begun.

Dane felt a tug at his chest, but it was weak, and what little he could hear wasn’t enough to entice him. However, it was beautiful and made him long for deep intimacy. Unbidden, he recalled resting his head in his mother’s lap as she sang to him, hiding the fatigue and sorrow in her voice. Tears pricked at his eyes. He looked down and saw that Trill was weeping, struggling feebly in her bonds.

The song only got louder and more gut-wrenching as they continued forward, until they reached a mostly round, smaller cavern with many points of light filtering up through the water. Porous holes had been worn through the rock walls that whistled and amplified the sound tenfold. Fifer and Clarion looked unmoved, and Murkle ever-resolute, but Dane was digging his nails into the hull, splintering wood under his fingers, and Trill had begun to thrash with a ferocity she’d previously been crying too hard to summon.

Dane grabbed her knees and pulled her down, trying to get her under control, but then noticed movement in the gondola. Umeberos was stirring - no, he’d been awake a while, and bound next to Trill, had been sawing through his restraints with her phantom blade.

Before Dane could curse such an oversight, Umeberos had stood and picked the wax out of his ears. “I say!” he squawked. “What the deuce is-” and with that, the song sent him reeling, nearly over the edge of the boat. 

Dane bolted to his feet and grabbed the physician, scooping up the wax and jamming it back into his ear. “Sit down, you fool!” He barked. “A Lumiren is upon us!”

Umeberos paled and sat promptly, nodding, gripping the seat as if it could ground him. The boat was rocking from their scramble, and Dane looked back to check on Trill even as Fifer and Clarion, who had turned to see what was happening, became suddenly animated.

Trill had levered her upper body over the side and was trying to push against the inner hull with her bound feet. Her teeth ground in determination, and as Dane lunged for her, she rocked the boat, making him stumble.

It was as if his legs disappeared from under him. Dane and Trill both went over the side.

The water was cold and black. While all other sound was muffled, the song was somehow clearer than ever. 

Trill sank, and Dane swam after her, hoping ruefully that the wax would stay in his ears.

A trail of bubbles led him after her. His clothes were heavy. He could hold his breath much longer than she could, but that didn’t matter if he didn’t make it to her in time.

Something moved ahead of them. Dane drew his sword, but it moved slow and heavy in the water, its blade meeting too much resistance. 

The shape undulated and suddenly he was face to face with it. It carried the shape of a woman’s upper body, but in place of legs, long black tentacles as thick as his thigh at the base descended into the water below them. Small, blunt cilia lined each twisting limb, glowing with yellowish-green light. 

The Lumiren was naked, but alien, with smooth, pale blue skin that shone with some kind of lubricating mucus. Her navel disappeared into the tougher black skin of her tentacles. In place of ears two small fins protruded from the sides of her head. Long, flowing dark blue hair framed eyes that were large, yellow, and shimmeringly reflective, a gentle, reptilian nose, nearly flat, and the quirk of her lips suggesting fangs beneath. Glowing spots speckled the lengths of her arms, and dainty fingers skimmed through the water.

Dane had expected otherworldly beauty, but what faced him was both unnerving and oddly _ cute. _

The Lumiren smiled when she saw him, and opened her mouth, letting out another painful note of song. It vibrated through the water, each ripple wearing down his resistance. 

He couldn’t afford to linger, he told himself. Trill could drown.

He spotted her below, drifting into one of the Lumiren’s tentacles, and dove for her, arm outstretched. One of the other tentacles came near him questioningly, and he held his blade close, knowing swinging it wouldn’t do anything, but hoping the silver would keep her away.

His hand closed around Trill’s bonds and he noticed the bubbles had stopped rising from her mouth. Like this, he couldn’t waste time cutting her free. He needed to get her to the surface first. 

If only he could levitate her. Force would have to do.

Turning toward the surface of the water with his hand still tight around the ropes, he let go of his sword and dragged upward as hard as he could, putting all of his strength into slinging Trill to safety. His sword quickly faded into the blackness below, out of sight. 

Trill sailed to the surface, and just before she began sinking again, the oblong shadow of the gondola surged toward her and someone grabbed her, pulling her out of the water.

Tentacles surrounded Dane, prodding at his limbs. 

He swiveled and saw the Lumiren watching him, but for some reason she did not attack. The tip of a tentacle pulled down his face mask and ran up his cheek, its cilia like tiny tongues against his skin.

Dane’s lungs burned. He realized he was too far below the surface to get proper air. Maybe _ that _was why she was taking her time. He felt he should be panicking more, but the song was keeping him rather docile. 

None of his animal forms would be of help either. He was debating what to do as his vision began to haze, browning at the edges, and his eyes drifted closed.

He felt movement and then something soft and wet against his mouth. Air filled his lungs, waking him with a gasp, but as he fought to move, he realized he could not. Tentacles, pliant but thick with muscle, held him still, and the Lumiren was breathing into his mouth.

Her lips were cold and rather slimy, but not unpleasant - especially because they were keeping Dane alive.

However, as she fed him air, Dane began to feel tired - not the same as when he was about to pass out, but it seemed another level of fatigue was descending upon him. It was..._ magic. _ She was - feeding? - on his _ magic. _

He could have sworn that Sirens ate people. They were a phenomenon of the Prime Material, but even he had heard the stories of sailors being drawn and quartered by hungry aquatic women. But as the Lumiren cradled his face in her slick hands, exchanging air for energy, he felt the two of them rising, her free tentacles propelling them to the surface. 

What..._ was _this? He struggled to think clearly, even though the song had ended. Part of him never wanted her to let him go. The other part realized that she was buoying him, maybe even preparing to release him, and was swiftly growing impatient to move on his own again.

And all of a sudden, it was over. The Lumiren’s mouth was gone from his, and Dane’s head bobbed above the surface of the water, gasping at the dank cavern air, sluggishly beginning to tread in place as a glowing tentacle trailed down his thigh, almost teasingly, and disappeared.

“Dane!” Clarion’s voice echoed off the walls. “Over here!” 

Dane looked around wildly, eyes catching on a dark triangle of rock where several shadows moved. They had moored the gondola near the cavern’s other exit, along their original course. He swam toward them, casting a glance below him. No sign of any movement.

He was almost out of breath when he reached the shore and rolled onto the rocks. Coughing, he wiped his lips on the back of his hand and shakily got to his feet, focusing on not falling back in as he staggered over to the group. Clarion was bent over Trill, hands on her chest, while Fifer was crouched by her head. Murkle had not left the boat.

“She’s not breathing,” Clarion said tersely, as he repeated a downward thrust into Trill’s heart with both palms. “There must be water in her lungs. We need to get her to cough it up.” 

Fifer took a deep breath and pinched Trill’s nose, blowing air into her mouth. She pulled away, listened, and then continued.

“Get Umeberos,” Clarion said to Dane. “Make sure he hasn’t escaped. Then come and take over for Fife, she’s getting lightheaded.”

Dane ran to the boat only to find Umeberos draped over the seat like a hind over a horse’s flank, Murkle perched on his lower back. Murkle looked up at Dane dully.

“Get this contemptible creature off me at once!” Umeberos cried, his words muffled by the deck.

Dane turned on his heel and scrambled back over to Trill, ushering Fifer out of the way to let her breathe. He bent and did just as the Lumiren had for him, sealing his lips over Trill’s and blowing air into her mouth.

He did that three more times.

“She’s stirring,” Clarion said. “Fifer, you’re up again.”

Fifer took Dane’s place from the other side. The moment she made contact, Trill jerked and sputtered. Clarion dragged her to a sitting position as Fifer and Dane moved out of the way.

Trill put her hand on Clarion’s shoulder clumsily, and then vomited water down the front of his tunic.

“You just had to get me wet, too,” he chuckled.

Grimacing tiredly, Trill rested her forehead against his chest for a moment. “Is Dane-?”

“Behind you,” said Dane.

“The doctor?”

“In the boat,” said Fifer.

Trill sighed. “Good.” She smiled, but it faded quickly.

“Trill,” Dane said. “It was an accident. We’re all fine.”

“I know,” she said. “I still feel foolish. Risking the mission for simple curiosity, and two of us almost got eaten alive.”

Dane blushed, scratched the back of his neck. “Er, actually-”

“Then don’t do it again,” Fifer said bluntly. “Next time you want Dane to tie you up, do it in private.”

Dane lurched to his feet, even as Clarion laughed and Trill half-heartedly joined in, the Lumiren forgotten. “_ What? _”

Fifer held his gaze. “It was a tension breaker.”

“Don’t worry, Dane,” Trill said, her voice still a little weak. “I don’t think you need any more practice with rigging. I couldn’t even reach my Phantom Blade.” 

Right. _ Practice. _

“But Umeberos could. I’m going to check on him again.” Dane turned back toward the gondola. “Glad you’re alright.”

Trill caught his sleeve from Clarion’s arms. “Dane, wait.”

He looked over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Trill said. 

Dane nodded, lest he say anything to embarrass them both, and went to the gondola. 

He sat on the rim of the hull, tilting it momentarily as he settled there. Murkle was still sitting on Umeberos.

“Go on, get off him,” Dane said, grabbing another length of rope.

Murkle grunted something judgemental and moved, so that Dane could yank Umeberos to his feet and start tying him again.

“Some light!” the old man insisted. “Give me some light, gods damn you! I can’t see in the dark!” 

“That much is obvious,” Dane said, pulling the knot around his wrists tight. He found a torch in the deck pouch that had miraculously not gotten wet, and struck it alight, bringing warm firelight to the cavern. “Happy now?”

Umeberos turned eagerly toward the light, but recoiled when he saw Dane. “Goddess fend! What happened to your face?”

Dane towered over him. “Something wrong with my eyes?” he growled. “One half-breed to another, I would have thought you’d understand.”

“No, no!” Umeberos said hurriedly. “Your eyes are - perfectly handsome, very - red, er - I mean your face, your _ face _! Look at your reflection in the water!”

Dane shoved him out of the way and did just that, leaning over the boat and holding the torch out so he could see. 

There was a squadron of bright red sucker marks across his cheek, and neck, like that which a tentacle might leave.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dane groaned.

As he sat up, Clarion and Fifer were helping Trill over to the gondola. 

Fifer saw him first and blinked. “Rough night?”

Murkle made that judgemental grunt again, followed by what had to be laughter.

“Damn Lumirens,” Dane muttered, and doused the torch in the water.

_ And _he needed a new sword.


End file.
